


Turn and Face the Strain

by Quinara



Series: Turn and Face the Strain [3]
Category: Angel: the Series, Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: Community: seasonal_spuffy, Crossover, F/M, Gen, season: a3, season: b6
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-19
Updated: 2012-05-24
Packaged: 2017-11-05 15:45:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 82,988
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/408170
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Quinara/pseuds/Quinara
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Buffy thought about falling in love again, she didn't expect it to be nearly so complicated as it actually turns out to be.<br/>Also, she didn't expect it to be Spike.  (She's not sure he did either.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. I'm Not a Political Animal, But.

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Spring 2012 round of Seasonal Spuffy on DW. Many thanks to the fabulous Bogwitch for putting up with me and being my beta!

So, it wasn’t Tuesday anymore.

In fact, three nights had passed since Tuesday night, which made it Saturday, the least threatening day of the week. Buffy was out of the hospital, as of last night, and she was feeling great, walking with her guy-boyfriend-vampire-guy to the Magic Box, where Anya had some money paperwork to go over with her. Then it would be off to work, for her least hated shift of two till eleven.

OK, so they were walking through the sewers, which were smelly – and her left collarbone was still broken where she'd been shot. But that bone wasn't so vital; she had a brace-thing on to keep it straight while she healed, hidden under her shirt. Everything was great.

“Look, I know you’re the Slayer, yeah?”

Her only problem was Spike.

He was grousing, “But even you need to rest up sometimes.”

Scowling, Buffy turned to glare at him again, seriously irritated by the earnest look of concern on his face. She’d told him she was fine to work about a hundred times already that morning, but it seemed like he still didn’t believe her – if he was even listening at all. In the gloom of the underground he looked almost like a ghost with his pale skin and white hair; for a moment she wished she could bat him away like vapour, or else exorcise him, something like that.

_The answer you’re looking for, Buffy, is staking him…_

When her brain put it like that, of course, it was obviously not going to happen. Stupid brain.

“Will you at least accept what you’re doing is bloody ridiculous?” He was still talking, fidgeting with frustration, scowling a scowl to match hers. “Know I can’t stop you doing it, but could you at least accept that?”

Their arguing was pretty sophisticated these days. No longer were they able to go at it with even the pretence they were fighting to the death, so somehow along the way they’d ended up with this: point-scoring. Wheedling little suggestions that actually meant she would be yielding ground.

Yeah, like she was ever going to fall for that.

It was possibly true, Buffy accepted, that going back to work less than four days after getting shot in the shoulder was not the best idea she’d ever had. At the same time, she was extremely unclear on what alternative there was. This was the point where her argument rested, she supposed, but she’d been trying to convince Spike that she was OK for so many hours now that it felt like giving in to, well, give in.

Thankfully, while they no longer fought to the death, there _was_ the other thing they did – and that had been known to move them past many an argument. This time, Buffy hoped, she would at least be able to distract Spike enough that they could get to the Magic Box.

And so, meeting the fire of Spike’s glare with a challenging raise of her eyebrows, she shoved him back against the sewer wall and followed up with the best make out-instigating kiss she had in her repertoire. It was a one-handed shove from her right hand – her left hand, attached to her left arm and her unhealed left shoulder, that was resting in her front pocket – but it had much the same effect as a two-handed push:

 _Ha!_ A gasp of surprise, slammed out of him.

 _Ooh..._ A hand in her hair, forcing fingers behind her stubby pony tail.

 _Guh._ Another hand on her ass, groping hesitantly before it dragged her closer.

And finally: “You really – know how to romance a bloke, don’t you?” murmured between kisses, half amused and half annoyed.

Yanking on his shirt, she was fine with all of it. “Screw romance,” she told him, and he shrugged, doing so.

Now, it was important to remember that they weren’t like this all the time. Sometimes they were so romantic Buffy thought it shouldn’t be allowed.

Like last night, for instance. She’d come home from the hospital expecting a warm and comfy bed, but otherwise maybe some cold pizza and flat soda. What there had actually been was presents – more presents! – and something like a party again, which had been -

Well, it had been really nice, even if it _had_ been a little weird...

 

_It was weird to be out of her hospital gown, not to mention her bed, but here she was. At home, she was dressed up nice clothes, new clothes even, courtesy of one vampire boyfriend who’d bought her a slinky, shiny black shirt with an easy-access zip up the back. She was dancing around the living room, outfit completed by the necklace Dawn had got her._

_Before the secret fizzy wine had been unveiled – because there was fizzy wine, apparently, which had been kept hidden so as to be opened in celebration after her birthday went by without mishap (ha!) – her dancing had been full of energy, mostly silly grooving with Dawn to guilty pleasure 80s CDs. After a cake break, though, and her decision that one full glass three hours after painkillers wouldn’t kill her, even the bubbles hadn’t been enough to keep her from feeling mellow. Dawn had been bought off with one cranapple mimosa in a moment of irresponsible guardianship; Willow had slumped happily onto the couch the moment the three-CD stereo decided it was time to move on to an angsty woman singer-songwriting through her pain. She, on the other hand, had made Spike dance with her, step her around in slow circles so she could rest her head on his shoulder._

_At one point, because it seemed like the thing to do, Buffy ducked up her chin and kissed him, all slow and photogenic like in the movies, not an embarrassing PDA at all. After she’d started, though, there didn’t seem much reason why she couldn’t kiss him again, and then a little bit more. He didn't seem to mind._

_Eyes closed, unfortunately, her train of thought drifted at that moment, and she only remembered where they were when the CD came to the end. The changer didn’t want to go back to the beginning, just like always, and it was buzzing at them instead of co-operating._

_Buffy blinked, pulling back slightly to look around. “Oh,” she said, her body full of warmth. “Where did Dawn and Willow go?” All the downstairs was dark, apart from the living room, like the lights had been turned off._

_“Think they went to bed, love,” Spike suggested, reluctantly letting her go to turn off the stereo. “Does it matter?”_

_Oh god, Buffy thought, this was embarrassing. How had she not noticed them leaving? Had they tried to tell her? She thought maybe she remembered Willow’s voice saying something, but it was all a blur of Spike hands and Spike lips and Spike smell and… Could she blame it on the medication?_

_Her thoughts were interrupted as the Spike parts returned, hands smoothing around her waist and lips nibbling on her ear. She moaned. It really didn’t matter, did it?_

_“Come on,” he whispered wickedly, sending shivers through her body._

_She took his hand when he proffered it, and then he was spiriting her upstairs, leading her with nimble, hurried footsteps into the bathroom. It took a moment for her drug-addled brain to work out why that was where they were going, but then she remembered – Tara’s presents from her actual birthday, they were in the bathroom, waiting to be tried and tested and enjoyed. Aromatherapeutic magicky bath oils, all of which promised to be nice, but one particular sneaky-naughty sexy one needed to be tried out right now._

_It was hidden behind her shampoo and shower gel collection on the window sill, but Spike retrieved it unerringly. When they’d made plans in the hospital, sneaky-naughty plans, she’d asked him to hide it out of sight from Dawn (whose toiletry collection was in the other corner) and Willow (who kept hers in her room), but now he was passing it to her, encouraging her to pour some into the bath as he turned on taps and snicked the door closed shut behind them._

_Immediately she knew the oil was powerful stuff. The scent bloomed in the running water and the warmth inside her, that responded to it, swelling, crackling with energy. In a moment she recorked the bottle and turned to kiss Spike again, loving the feel of him as her hand swept everywhere she could reach. He purred as he undressed her, a thick rumble to his moan as he carefully helped her out of all the clothes he’d helped her put on so recently. She did what she could to get him out of his._

_Even when the clothes were all gone, however, she wasn’t entirely undressed. “This the new toy, then?” Spike asked in a husky murmur, like he hadn’t already seen her brace that evening. His fingers traced the path of it, figure-of-eight around one shoulder, across her back, around the other, grazing up beside her breast again to make her quiver. The sound of rushing water was like the blood rushing from her head. “Bit flimsy, innit?”_

_“It keeps the bones in line,” she told him, like he didn’t already know. His fingers felt so good on the stretch-synthetic. “So I can heal.”_

_“Love what it does for your posture,” he added, possibly ignoring her, definitely feeling her up and dropping kisses to her sternum, around curves. The promise of his very excellent boob-kisses made her tingle with anticipation – but that wasn’t where he headed. Instead he went out along her right collarbone, which was unbroken, but still held poker-straight by her brace. Coming up to nibble her neck for a moment, he whispered, “Love being able to feel your heartbeat,” doing something fun with his right hand._

_With a deep groan from somewhere low inside her, she was tilting her head back, eyes hooded and vision flickering between darkness and ceiling. She wasn’t sure what to do but keep her right hand on his hip, but she was willing to go with whatever. As his lips moved around to the other side of her neck, however, her heart definitely quickened – breath came in rasps as his lips moved down her shoulder, closer to the wound._

_She knew what he was looking at. On her, skin healed quickest, but it healed in its own way. There was no dressing and three days was enough that her surgery scar was faint, stitches dissolving in overactive enzymes – but the bruises weren’t quite yet dispersed and the bullet wound itself was still puckered and raw._

_The whole area was, by definition, sensitive, but now lips were edging close, teasing, pushing, just the right side of pain._

_Around her, the bathroom was filling with steam, the scent of rich, golden spices strong and intoxicating. Whatever the magic was, she could feel it, swirling into her skin with the sinuous promise of something really good – with his kissing, with the curling hints of pain as his lips touched deeper bruises, her insides were winding up tighter and tighter, eased and twisted into perfect tension._

_Was that…?_

_She moaned, unable to think as her eyes fell completely shut. Her legs were shaking; he had to hold her up._

_For a few more kisses, this was as far as he went, but then, because she was on the edge and apparently he could read her very, very well, Spike went for broke and kissed right where the bullet had pierced skin, shattered through her. It hurt, his lips too rough on raw nerves, enough to make her flinch and jar the knitting bone – but, even as she gasped, every muscle in her fought back against pain, claiming pleasure in one slow shimmy from every tense, coiled nerve._

_Spike still had a hand on her heart, she realised afterwards, coming back to the sound of water. That had to have given her away._

_Those eyebrows of his were definitely raised. “Did you – ” he began, sounding shocked, with only the first hints of smugness. “Did you really just – ?”_

_Hit the big O through nothing more than his tonguing of her injury? She had a horrible feeling, which wasn’t actually that horrible, the answer was yes. “And we’re, what, surprised by this?” she asked, trying to deflect through her embarrassment. It had actually only been a little O, really, nothing to write home about – and how different was this from all the post-fighting sex they had anyway? The magic bath oil, that was definitely to blame. She was blaming the bath oil._

_“Know you can do a bit of…” Spike was saying, looking at her with his big blue eyes. “Never thought you’d trust me enough to get there, is all.”_

_Stunned, she stared at him for a moment, all defensiveness gone. The thoughts she could feel coming were way too big to deal with right at that moment, so she kissed him instead, right hand to his face. Fuckety fuck, the steam was making his body warm up – “Get in the magic bath, Spike,” she told him. All of a sudden she was certain they had no time to lose. “ Now.”_

 

It wasn’t really fair to fantasise while Spike was kissing her. Even if sewer wasn't very nice to make out in, the wall slimy and sticky behind her head, it was only polite to pay attention. No matter how special the night before had been.

Buffy figured she should probably tell Tara that her recipe was a little over-juiced, anyway, because topping up the water however many times it took to get them from eleven to twenty-past-two in the morning wasn’t her normal bathing behaviour. It was fine for one night, and a lot of fun, but it had been a little house-of-the-never-ending-Riley-time. It had left her pruney. And now she'd never know what it would have been like without the magic, even though she hoped it would have been just as good. The had the reputation, after all, of being able to sexify the hell out of any situation.

Like this trip through the sewers, for example.

Seriously, Buffy thought as she moaned around Spike's tongue, they were going to be late for seeing the others at the Magic Box if they kept this up. Anya was a pretty strict timekeeper. That wasn't to say she didn't _want_ Spike’s mind off of things, but it was probably time to get…

“You know you can’t distract me,” Spike murmured then, cheek sliding against hers a moment before she was going to pull back from the kiss (dammit).

She felt thwarted. “Who says I’m trying?” she attempted to regroup, batting her eyelids just a little.

That made him laugh, but he didn’t fall for it, just hoicked her indelicately up the thigh of his she was straddling. It forced her to grab hold of his shoulder, which was enough of an excuse to kiss him one last time. “Besotted though I am, love,” he told her afterwards, “I _can_ tell when your mind’s on other things.” He looked at her down his nose, accusing like he’d figured out she’d been fantasising. “Not going anywhere if I can’t take you with me.”

No longer in the mood to argue, she sighed, relaxing against him. “You just want me for yourself,” she grumbled grudgingly. The tone was rather undone by her actions, as she hooked her right arm further around him, satisfied her fingers with his hairline. Not that he didn’t start playing the bottom poppers of her DMP uniform shirt. It was kind of a shame that was actually relevant to this particular argument. “You’d be the same if I wanted to get out to the park, arm-schmarm.”

“No,” he began, like he was talking to a small child, before he pulled back to look her in the eye. “If I wanted you to myself, you’d know it. There’d be chains involved. Less of this daft notion called clothing. Maybe a blindfold.”

Was she meant to smack him for that image? He had to be able to feel how much suggestion was really not necessary right now – she could definitely feel _him_. “OK, fine,” said, avoiding violence for the moment. “So in a perfect world you’d wanna roleplay through the pain of me rejecting you that time, but don’t think I don’t know you’re big –”

“Noticed that, did you?”

“– on the _opportunism._ ” She threatened him with her glare, until he smirked and hoicked her again, letting her measure. Sewer water splashed as he shifted his feet for balance. “Look,” she insisted, refusing to let him distract her, especially since she’d failed on him. It was time to get serious. “I told you – there’s no way I can’t go back to work.” There had been a long time to think about this yesterday when she’d been lying in her hospital bed and she’d worked it all through to exhaustion. “I need the money and they told me on the phone, I don’t get any more days off.” That was what it came down to. “I have to be grateful I’m not on shift for –”

“ _Grateful?_ ” Spike guffawed, still holding her. The gloom of the sewer really did make his face that much whiter, the lines of his features and his incredulity that much sharper. “To the Doubleshit Hellhole? I don’t think so.” She could get lost, watching him feel things. “You’re the one who’s doing them a favour, just by being there.”

Still shaking off distraction, Buffy remembered to listen. “Dammit, Spike –” So, all right, it was sweet and everything, but they were going to work on the idea that her presence or absence was some sort of pricey commodity she traded on a barter exchange. Fine, so she gave him a kiss for the sweetness – made it slow because his presence felt like a gift sometimes too, even though she wasn’t meant to be thinking that right now – but they were going to work on it later. “– it’s not like I wanna be, but they pay my paycheque and I need that paycheque, so they can really do whatever they want. If I want Lorraine to be nice to me I _have_ to be grateful to her.”

Now Buffy expected him to bring up Kate’s job offer again, make more encouraging noises towards the idea of her as a cop. It hadn’t completely vanished from her own mind, but she figured copping was a profession that needed both hands functional even more than fast-food, so it was being ignored for the moment. What Spike in fact said, however, was, “I can get you money.” It came with a resentful little pout.

The unexpected made her worry, so this wasn’t good. It made her wonder what the hell he’d been doing between visiting hours. “And I’m really, really glad you _won’t_ ,” she told him carefully, keeping her eyes on his. Presents were fine, she would accept non-excessive levels of present, but taking his money was in no way ever an acceptable solution to her financial hole, especially when it came from gambling wins and skeevy deals. “OK?”

Spike looked away at that moment, which made her stomach sink, but she wasn’t going to accuse without proof. She wasn’t. It wasn’t worth it. And she was still shoring up energy before she put her achey arm back to work.

“Come on,” Buffy said, regaining her footing and letting him go with one last stroke of his cheek. “The others are gonna start wondering where we are.”

Spike snorted, telling her _exactly_ where the others would imagine them to be: in bed, where, so she bet Spike thought, in a good world they’d still be. All the same, he levered himself back from her and followed as she headed off down the last stretch of tunnel to the Magic Box.

However, outside the basement entrance – the sign of eviller proprietors past? – Spike snagged hold of her right hand, running his thumb across the back of it. Quite voluntarily she turned towards him, surprised, but not particularly.

The look in his eyes spoke volumes. “If we’re already late,” he suggested, slowly, like he’d just solved a puzzle, “they won’t notice another few minutes.”

For a moment she thought about it. Then she conceded that he made a very good point. Also, she’d spent three days in a hospital out of her mind with boredom, so she was due some spontaneity. “Hmm,” she hesitated, looking down between them. Also. “I suppose I could use the endorph–” Suddenly, then, she was squealing as he pounced, caught her underneath her thighs and spun her around in the gentlest wall-slam ever. “Spike!” Her shoulder didn’t even feel it, let alone jar.

This was the problem with her earlier strategy, she realised. While sewers didn’t do much for her on their own, she hadn’t left either of them in much of a state to stop – and they _were_ late, getting later. Even after they’d left the house on time.

Although, with his mouth back on hers, she wasn’t sure she minded.

“Mmm...” She gave in, running her good hand back up the addictive angles of his jaw, wishing she could cover more of him, if only to shut him up.

The bastard was so goddamn mocking. “Endorphins, you said?”

She was getting some right this minute. Not that she was telling him that. “If you can spare the effort.”

“Oh, don’t worry,” he purred, lifting her higher. He met her eyes, almost certainly to check she was there. An easy test to ace these days. “Doctor Spike is _in_.”

At that, however, Buffy sighed. Some people shouldn’t be allowed to make jokes.

Or at least… _Ah, screw it._ “Not yet he isn’t.”

* * *

When they finally made it into the Magic Box, giggling through the basement and up the stairs, Buffy was more than a little surprised to find the place practically empty. Anya was just finishing with a customer at the cash register and Tara was sat at the table, cup of tea by her side while she studied, but Willow and Xander were nowhere to be seen.

“Hey, guys,” Buffy said, remembering to drop Spike’s hand. He headed off to the restricted section stairs so he could lurk. “Where is everyone?”

“Oh, hey, Buffy!” Tara replied, looking up with a smile. She took a sip of her tea, tilting the cup enough that Buffy could tell it wasn’t freshly made. “We weren’t sure you were gonna make it.”

It had only been… Well, it had been about twenty-five minutes, she guessed – yeah, they were only twenty minutes late, she confirmed by the clock on the wall. There were still forty before she needed to be at the Palace. Was it that bad?

“Xander has a tux fitting,” Anya replied more bluntly once her customer had left, dinging bell in his wake. “Willow had to go to the library.”

“Oh,” was all Buffy could say, feeling like a terrible friend. On the upside, this group did mean that Spike came over to the table and looked ready to lounge on the bench proper, not too far away from Tara. Even if he did make a face like he was offended by the herbal smell Tara’s tea. Buffy rolled her eyes, because he always overreacted to things he disapproved of; it wasn’t like he hadn’t just made it complaint-free through the smelly heartland of the Sunnydale sewers.

At least Tara looked amused. “It’s ginseng, Spike. Hello to you too.”

“’lo,” he replied, absently. Buffy gave up and sat down with Anya, just as Spike started heading to the back room. “Watcher leave any scotch behind, d’you know?”

“It’s one-thirty in the afternoon!” Buffy shouted after him, hoping to at least maintain the pretence that she encouraged good habits.

The reply he shouted back was as she might have expected. “I know! Need to start catching up!”

“Look, can we get moving here, please!” Anya interrupted, officiously shuffling some papers Buffy had thought were more of Tara’s notes. “I’m under a lot of stress; I’m getting married in a couple weeks and have been compulsively eating fried food – we don’t have time for arguments about alcohol that Giles was never gonna...” Spike came out of the back room then, tossing a minibar bottle of Glen-probably-something triumphantly in his hand before the sound made Anya turn around. And glare at him.

“Christ, it’s a laugh a minute with you lot, innit?” Spike grumped. Buffy tried not to be amused. As luck would have it, he provided a convenient distraction as he sauntered back to the table, shaking his head as he and his criminally tight jeans bent physics to bring him to sitting by her side.

Anya, however, continued to glower. “Buffy,” she bit out, “you have lichen in your hair,” 

Compulsively, Buffy raised her hand, feeling the twinge in her left shoulder where the reflex had moved some muscles. That boded well, didn’t it? “Oh… Crap,” she said, blushing, trying to feel where the lichen was. Her fingers ran into Spike’s as he rooted it out for her, but that only made her blush more. “The sewers,” she tried to excuse herself, batting Spike’s hand away. “Um, we were in the sewers and I must’ve… Can lichen, uh, fall off stuff?”

Abruptly, Anya harrumphed, turning over her papers again, which made Buffy feel really bad.

“It’s OK,” Tara soothed nonetheless, even as Spike tossed the lichen away and started unscrewing his mini bottle. “There was some – stress before you came.” After another sip of her tea, apparently taken reflexively, she continued, “And you’re still healing up; you deserve time – to, um…” Her eyes ducked away for a moment, but Buffy wasn’t entirely fooled – she could see the humour in the other woman’s smile. Oh yes, she was onto her, the crafty sex-witch woman. “Don’t worry about it.”

Unfortunately, Spike was too, and he took his cue to run one wicked hand up her thigh until it jumped. Buffy blushed harder, hoping no one noticed.

“What was the stress?” she blustered on, hoping to change the subject. Not sure that she actually would. “It wasn’t…?” Things in the hospital had been pretty hazy, but she thought she remembered everyone being fine with her and Spike. That couldn’t have been it, could it?

Tara shook her head, but that could have meant anything, so Buffy turned to Anya, who sighed – almost an apology, Buffy decided. “Willow thinks Tara’s screwing Kate,” Anya explained then, leaning on her elbows to play with her engagement ring.

At Buffy’s side and quicker on the uptake than her, Spike snorted. He turned it into a cough when Buffy kicked him, but it was enough to make Tara blush defensively. “She doesn’t think that really.” Buffy wasn’t sure what that meant; was it anything to worry about? Was that why Willow wasn’t here? Waving a hand, Tara seemed to dismiss the topic, but she was still talking, like she’d been thinking, “I mentioned that we met up last night… I think Willow was hoping I’d make it clear we weren’t dating, but I didn’t want to get into – that sort of game, you know, so I didn’t. And then Anya –”

“All I said,” Anya repeated, clearly still annoyed about it, but apparently now willing to take Buffy into her confidence, rather than just project irritation, “was that her social possessiveness was a character fault that she should work on.” Buffy winced; it made Anya bristle again. “What? It’s not like she doesn’t comment on what _I_ do all the goddamn…”

“ _Anyway_.” Tara clawed the conversation back to her. “None of that’s really important, and the main thing is that Kate said she could take you down to LA Monday,” she finished with a smile.

“Oh,” Buffy replied, taking it in. And then realised what Tara was saying. “Oh, that’s great!” She hadn’t really come up with a plan for Monday, so was glad to have that sorted at least. Brian, he of owning her mom’s gallery, had returned one of Anya’s phone calls – so Buffy had been informed in hospital – and had fixed an appointment at his lawyers’ offices, which was in LA. It was short notice, but, the way Buffy saw it, the sooner the better. “I said I’d call Angel with the details, maybe tonight.”

“Whmm,” Spike cut in, obviously paying enough attention to hear _Angel’s_ name, the jealous idiot. He finished off the whiskey, completely and totally one hundred per cent unattractive as he tipped his head back and swallowed, before he asked, “What’s all this about, anyway?” Yeah, he still didn’t believe her, did he? “Slayer mentioned some of it, but she was a bit blonde on the details.”

She kicked him again – only to realise from the smirk on his face and the squeeze on her leg that (a) he was enjoying the attention and (b) she was totally being played. _Dumbass._ All the same, she explained, scathing as she blushed, “My mom invested in the gallery when we moved here; she was selling her share back to Brian when she died.” Mom was in a good place now, that was what she had to remember; she’d been there and it was good. She could talk about it if she remembered that. “The paperwork went hinky, but I’m gonna try sort it out.” There. Clear and simple. “That blonde enough for you, Miss Clairol?”

Her glare was met with a wink, which made her roll her eyes and turn back to Anya – who was watching them both in a way that looked like she was either misting up or about to yell at them again. Maybe she shouldn’t have let her hand settle over his on her leg. “Well, it’s all here,” Anya said, a little sniffly, bunching her papers straight and tucking them into a blue translucent wallet. “This is everything Dawn and I could find in terms of contracts, payment records, bank statements –” Then she sniffed, interrupting herself. “– it all shows that your mom didn’t receive any money… Some of it got slightly flood-damaged, but…” She sniffed again, definitely misty now. “Oh –” She passed the dossier Buffy’s way with one forceful turn of her hand, but then she broke down completely, bawling into her hands. “Oh – I just want Xander and me to be _happy_ – why is it so hard? He doesn’t want D’Hoffryn at our table and my perfect day’s all gonna be – it’s all going to – fall apart…”

For a moment, Buffy froze, staring at the other woman. Whatever she’d been expecting from today’s Scooby meeting, this wasn’t it.

Tara, on the other hand, cooed immediately, rushing around the table to pull Anya into a hug. After a second more, Buffy shoved the papers in front of Spike and followed suit, scooting along the bench. She tried to recall the right shushing words, patting Anya’s hand and rubbing her back. Part of her, though, was distracted, because it felt so weird to be the comforter in this situation and she couldn't work out why.

Anya kept crying and it was strange, because when had that happened? She didn’t have to worry about Xander, did she? He was solid – _they_ were solid, had been since Freshman year. Why would Anya worry?

Still, Buffy could sympathise, and she did, because she knew exactly what it was like to cry from panic and fear and...

It was then, however, that she realised, with a start, she hadn’t actually _had_ one of those jags in a couple of weeks. That was why this felt so weird: it was getting unfamiliar.

She looked at Spike. (He looked terrified of the crying.)

_When the hell did that happen?_

“It’s OK, Anya,” she said, turning back to the crying woman, feeling mystified. “It’ll all be OK,” she repeated. Because it would be, wouldn’t it?

* * *

A little while later, Buffy was staring into chip fat, jarring pains screaming up and down her left arm, left shoulder burning like she might have jarred something loose. Would everything be OK? Yeah, she was getting a lot less sure.

Anya had only just about regained equilibrium before Buffy had had to leave the Magic Box, break out into the sunshine and tread the short route to the Doublemeat Palace. Though Spike had taken her hand before she’d left, he’d neither tried to stop her or make her commit to any extra PDA, just begged her to take care of herself. She’d been a little shaken up from Anya’s – Anya’s! – meltdown, but it had seemed like an easy promise to make, so she’d squeezed his hand and told him that she would. And then she’d dropped a kiss on his cheek while the others weren’t looking, before she left him behind.

It wasn’t as if being a DMP drone was a particularly skilled or intensive job, after all, and her boss wasn’t a monster. When she’d clocked in, five minutes before shift, the first thing Buffy had seen was the rota, where Lorraine had put her on the counter to start with, not for one hour, but for two: light work on everything but her feet. The Doublemeat version of a rest.

Naturally, it was a trade-off, because going on counter meant smiling and speaking, keeping alert enough to count change and make eye contact when she told the customers to have a nice day. There were times when she hated it, about five-six-seven hours in, and when she could barely form the words, but today it was definitely the better alternative. By the time her painkillers had worn off, about an hour in and two hours before she could take some more, she’d started to wonder what she was going to do when she had to put her aching shoulder to work. It had seemed so easy in the hypothetical, back at home, dosed up on codeine and however the FDA classified Spike-sex, but without either it was pretty clear that she shouldn’t be moving her left arm right now, let alone using it.

This became exceptionally clear in the third hour of her shift, when she’d moved onto fries and let someone else have a break. Smiling and taking orders, packing burgers and fries and sodas into bags: she could do all that one-handed, even without slayer strength, but there really wasn’t a way to do fries quick enough with only her right hand. One basket needed to be in the fryer while the last was salted and shaken, funnel scoop fitted onto boxes so they could be filled in quick succession – fill, replace; fill, replace; fill, replace – to get all the portions done and down the chute before the next batch was finished.

So far she’d done one batch. _One batch._ And the timer was ticking down the last ten seconds on the next.

God, she was in so much pain. She could think around it rationally, because she’d experienced enough pain in life to do that, but this was a lot. Enough that in the old days she would have gone home from patrol and rescheduled her next day. The evening rush was going to start up soon, but she could feel her body trying to hunch over her braced shoulder, reflexes working against her brain when she told her chest to straighten out. Panicked thoughts started flooding into the back of her mind, not because of the pain, but because she couldn’t do this. She really couldn’t. Not without injuring herself some more – and the doctors had said that would mean surgery, which she couldn’t afford, which would cost way more than she would earn by working through this.

When the timer went off, she flinched.

Behind her, David grunted as he passed by, late onto his shift and over to the patty hotplate. “Think they’re done,” he said.

Embarrassed by her slacking, Buffy automatically reached out with her right hand and pulled the basket from the oil to the drainer. _Only a little bit too brown._

“You OK?” David was still talking. She wasn’t sure he’d ever said a word to her before, but here he was, asking about her welfare. Maybe it was true what they said about the Doublemeat family. “Heard you got shot.”

Or maybe she was the latest piece of morbid gossip.

Whatever; she was desperate. “Can we swap?” she asked, turning around. The next batch of fries weren’t even in; the ones behind her would be going cold. Patties only involved flipping, so they'd be easier. She’d be slow at putting them on the hotplate, but not so completely incapable. “I can’t…”

David shrugged, moving into position even as Sophie came over to complain that they were out of fries up front. With his usual expressionless, dinosaur-like motions he got on with frying and salting.

Sighing with relief that felt nothing like it, Buffy made her way down the line to the grill. This would be OK, she tried to tell herself. Things were getting a little bit behind, but it needn’t be so bad.

When she arrived at the station, though, Buffy realised that, as usual, Gina had left it with the patty plate empty. This was what the training video said they were meant to do, for hygiene reasons or in case the restaurant was closing after your shift and the meat would otherwise be left there overnight. How exactly you wouldn’t know that, Buffy wasn’t sure, but apparently the company thought it better to try getting everyone to do it than expect employees to realise they were clocking out at midnight. The thing was, most employees did know that, and it was easier not to go back and forth to the cold room, so no one except Gina followed the policy. Sure, that meant the meat got left out a little sometimes, especially on the back-up hotplate that only got used in the rushes, but, hey, it wasn’t even meat really, so…

Anyway, what this meant, more importantly, was that Buffy reflexively headed out back to the cold room, to do the task she had entirely forgotten was routine: pulling the unwieldy, multi-pound, tube-like sack of meat from the shelf about a foot above her head. It was possible to do with one hand, because the weight really didn’t bother her, but it was awkward. As she pulled it off the shelf it very quickly reached tipping point, pushing her backwards and making her swear, “Shit!” as she tried to raise her left arm for balance and really didn’t manage it, gasping as the pain struck again.

The meat came down. The far end hit the dust on the floor – but that was why it had its plastic wrapping, wasn’t it? Unfortunately the noise it made had brought a figure into the doorway, watching her fail to do her job, clearing her throat delicately.

It was Lorraine. “Buffy,” she said, soft voice firm. “Can I talk to you in my office, please?”

_Double shit._


	2. You Learn Fast around Here.

It was a lot like the rest of the building, Lorraine’s office. The walls were painted a soulless shade of corporate cheer, with motivational posters hung in pride of place instead of pictures. There were a few touches of personality on her desk – a stress-ball in the shape of an elephant and some photos in austere blue frames, of an average-looking guy and one round-faced girl standing outside elementary school – but they were pretty much crowded out by the orange DMP stationery, the cow hat resting on the computer monitor, the blue desktop background with the logo, the letterheads and manuals.

“I spoke to David,” Lorraine said as they came through the door, burger patties abandoned on the potato shelf in the cold room. “He told me you asked him to switch.”

Buffy’s mind raced, even as she followed. She couldn’t be fired for that, could she? “I’m sorry,” she said contritely. “I know you fix the rota to…” Well, OK, she knew Lorraine fixed the rota to make sure there was one person on each station who could do things as fast as they were supposed to, while the slower people were spread around the kitchen. But Buffy couldn’t be sure whether she was officially meant to know that.

“It’s not about that,” Lorraine dismissed as she came behind her desk, looked up. Her eyes were hard.

And so Buffy shut up, closing the door behind her.

As she took her seat, then, she was filled with an eerie sort of calm. The pain was at last starting to dull in her shoulder, if only back to normal. With the panic fading, her mind felt clear. She was about to be thrown off a cliff, that much was pretty obvious, but her mind hadn’t quite worked out it was falling yet.

“OK,” Lorraine began in a breezy tone, as if this was business. “Here’s what it is, Buffy.” Now, however, she wouldn’t meet her eyes, kept glancing at her daughter’s picture. What was her name? Buffy wondered. Despite the blackmail that didn’t happen and the promotion she never got, she really didn’t know Lorraine at all, did she? Was she a good person, a bad person? It had to mean something when she said: “I’m gonna have to ask you to go home.”

Because, wow, Buffy thought. It was one thing to know it was coming, but it was quite another to hear the words. Lorraine had to be a good person, Buffy decided, because otherwise she would have made this hurt more. As it was, even as the breath escaped from her lungs, it was only gradually that Buffy began to feel it, all the questions coming back about how Dawn was going to eat for the week after this, how she herself was going to. Whether they had any toothpaste left. Whether the bills were due or gone by for this month. It all seemed very distant, but Buffy could just about perceive the problems, up ahead in the distance.

“Please,” she said, and didn’t recognise her voice, low and defeated. Was she going to beg for her job at the DMP? _Again?_ With things as they were, she had to, didn’t she? “You don’t… You have to know how much I need this job. My sister and I…”

For a moment, Lorraine put her head in her hands, as if she didn’t want to hear it, or couldn’t bear to. Then, however, she was sweeping her hair off her face and continuing, expression set in its most managerial. “I know we’ve discussed your position before,” she said carefully, holding herself back from apologising, it seemed, “and I do remember. But…” She shook her head, another apology without words. “I’ve done as much as I can, and there’s no possibility… By strict company policy you weren’t eligible for any leave at all,” she explained, “but I was able to make an exception on account of the supervisory role you’ve taken during your time here.”

“Like I told you on the phone…” Buffy tried to interrupt, hoping to remember the exact specifics of what she’d said when she was drugged up.

But Lorraine was having none of it. “Please understand, Buffy: the guys above aren’t giving me a choice.” Professional demeanour finally assumed, Lorraine met Buffy’s eyes full on. “I can’t have you working here. That’s the way it is. It’s too dangerous for the customers and your colleagues – not to mention yourself. I don’t know what kind of drugs you’re on to stop the pain, but clearly need to be resting your shoulder, if you want it to heal right.”

“But…” Buffy tried to explain, lifting her arm as far as she could without agony. It wasn’t far, but it was much, much higher than a normal human patient would be able to get theirs less than four days after her injury. “It’s getting better, I promise you. Today might have been too soon to come back, but…” She could save this, couldn’t she? If she could only explain this, she might be able to get by. “I know it’s not company policy, but I don’t need to be paid – let me go home today, maybe tomorrow as well, but I’ll be back – not on Monday, but Tuesday. I can be here Tuesday.”

Tuesday would give her six whole days to have healed, Buffy worked out, which was pushing it for a broken bone, but wouldn’t necessarily be too bad. She would have to fake if for a few days after that, go easy on her work, slack a little – but she could make it happen.

The only problem with the plan, of course, was that Lorraine didn’t know about her superhealing and, going by the expression of pity on her face, she didn’t believe a word she was hearing.

“I have to follow the company line on this,” she reiterated, pushing even the possibility of Buffy’s freakdom to one side. “If I kept you on, there’s a high chance you could very permanently injure yourself, with the machinery or with the product, and that – that would make us liable. Now, I know you and I know you wouldn’t do anything like…” For a moment, Buffy wished she had been more mercenary about the meat-is-vegetables scenario. Spike would have been. “But people in your – situation,” Lorraine continued, though Buffy knew that by that she meant ‘poor’, “it’s usually worth it for them to sue. And the Palace won’t let me risk that. I can’t put the company in that sort of situation.”

In the end, Buffy didn’t know what to say. OK, so Lorraine knew she wouldn’t do it, but why did the DMP think she would – just because she needed the money? It wasn’t like she could afford the lawyer; she knew she’d be destroyed in ten minutes flat. If she could challenge the Doublemeat to a duel, then maybe she’d do that, but… Sue?

Unfortunately, her silence was the opportunity Lorraine took to close the conversation, so Buffy couldn’t even complain. “You’ll always have a job to come back to, Buffy. In a few months’ time, maybe, when you’re feeling better – but I have to ask you to leave for now.” Yeah, they’d let her come back, but only after they believed she’d spent enough time healing that their lawyers wouldn’t be scared. The offer was useless. “You’ll get paid for this shift – I can give you that much – but you need to go home.”

Buffy couldn’t bring herself to say another word. She meant to say ‘thanks’, because she knew Lorraine was doing more than a lot of bosses would, but, the thing was, if she opened her mouth right then, she wasn't sure what would come out.

* * *

They gave her a Medley Meal to go and she went, walking out into the late afternoon with its first hints of sunset. It was cold, empty-sky January cold, enough that if she left her food until she got back home, Buffy knew, _it_ would be cold too. And if there was one thing she didn’t to start her unemployment with, it was a cold Doublemeat Medley.

Like the miserable woman she was, then, Buffy sat down on a damp bench near the end of Main Street and started unpacking her meal. She had to have eaten hundreds of these things by now, but this one… It looked as greasy as all the others, but it was actually making her nostalgic. The sight and feel of her last burger (because hell knew she wasn't eating at the DMP again), it made her wish she’d tried to speak to some of her colleagues, at least when she hadn’t felt like she’d wanted to die or was dying. Why hadn’t she invited any of them to her party? Not that that would have been a good call, with the shouting and the shooting and everything, but it might have been nice to keep in touch with Sophie, maybe, or one of the guys.

It was clear Sophie had packed her bag, after all. Not a fry was spilled from its box. Partly that was because of Sophie’s dry skin and sensitivity to salt, or whatever, but also because she was just that anal. Even about Dave’s fries, which were twenty seconds too crunchy and three salt-sweeps too salty. Ricky had done the meat patty, Martina the chicken and Todd had slapped it together with garnish, Machiavelli-style.

How did she know all this, and yet couldn’t recall a single surname for any of them?

Chowing down, Buffy realised she was disappointed. Not just with losing her income, but with the fact she’d gone from Fiesta Queen of Hemery High to Buffy: Have a Nice Summer (if you aren’t six feet down). She used to know people, notice things about them, and now she couldn’t even make a single friend out of colleagues she’d been forced to spend almost all her waking hours with.

When she found a new job, she decided, because she was thinking positive, she was going to do better. She was going to toe the line _and_ be the popular one. She’d be chatty – and organise… Well, she wouldn’t organise socials because she had absolutely no money for them. But she would accept any invitations she was offered.

Sipping on her Coke, Buffy eventually remembered the problem she’d had ever since she’d been Fiesta Queen. Being the Slayer. That was was what made socialising tough – and explaining Spike, that was hard, would become even harder when they hit the summer and all of her potential friends would probably want to hang at the beach. Even if the apocalypse only came once to make her bail.

And then there was the other thing. Disappointed though she was in herself, Buffy could admit that, honestly, she didn’t really have the energy for new friends. She’d take them if they came along, but her favourite pastime was still pretty much hiding out in Spike’s crypt. Right now she wanted nothing more than to head over there for a few hours, pretend the world outside didn’t exist. Dawn wasn’t expecting her back until late, so she could at least put off the fear and disappointment until then.

Why was money so important, anyway? Stupid human world.

“Oh, hey Buffy, is that you?” a woman called over then, cutting into Buffy's maudlin. “How’s it going?”

Distracted, she looked up, blinking as she tried to locate the voice. It was coming from down the street, just outside the Espresso Pump, and it turned out to be Kate, who had a large takeout cup in her hand. Great; another almost-friend who had entirely slipped Buffy’s mind – but that was OK, wasn’t it, because Kate didn’t know that. And she wasn’t going to judge her a failure for getting fired, because that had happened to her too, didn’t she vaguely recall?

“Hey, are you OK?” She came closer.

Gathering her facial muscles into something like a smile, Buffy tried to reply cheerily, standing up, “Yeah, yeah; I’m fine.” It felt like her entire body was made of water, but that didn’t need to be mentioned. “Hi!” she said. “How are you? Grabbing coffee?”

Kate smiled more realistically, raising her cup in a toast. It was almost like normal human interaction. “You caught me.” Nodding back over her shoulder, she added, “They were out of doughnuts, otherwise I’d be a jelly centre away from a cliché.”

Trying to laugh, Buffy kept on smiling. She’d only seen Kate once since she’d shot Warren, over in the hospital before they’d let her discharge herself, and that had been mostly about Buffy trying to very awkwardly thank the cop for doing her job – without implying that she was glad to know Warren was dead. Because she wasn’t, not really; it caused too much guilt to even think that she might be.

OK, and in the spirit of cheeriness that was really, really not going to be their topic of conversation this afternoon.

“Are you going anywhere thrillsome with it?” Buffy asked, hoping to get something moving. “The coffee, I mean?”

Kate looked down at the takeout lid for a moment. “Oh, not really. We got a case wired through from the LAPD that they want us to chase up. Could go federal, but they don’t know what they’ve got yet. I was just about to track down a lead. How about you?”

“Oh, nothing important, you know.” Friends told the truth, didn’t they? Well, that was cheeriness gone by the wayside, Buffy thought, one-handedly pulling her coat more closed as she felt a shiver of cold. “I was supposed to go back to work today, but I guess it wasn’t meant to be.” Yep, she was a one-woman misery machine. “My arm couldn’t keep up with the pace, so my boss… She told me to go home.”

Clearly Kate was better at this interaction stuff than her; a sympathetic frown immediately crossed her face. “Wait – you mean…”

“Yep.” Buffy confirmed, hoping for wry. “Buffy the underemployed ex-co-ed is now Buffy the unemployed ex-fry cook.” Huh. She’d talked about being a fry cook before with someone, hadn’t she? Who was it? It had seemed a lot less likely then, she remembered. Couldn’t have been recently. “I have about six hours before my paycheque ends and this month isn’t gonna get done.”

“God, I’m sorry,” Kate told her, before letting the silence hang. Shrugging, Buffy didn’t look back at her, the thoughts and worries starting to fill her mind again, a little more urgently than this bust of a friendly conversation. What _was_ she going to do? Lorraine would give her a good reference, maybe, but she’d tell anyone who called the reason why Buffy couldn’t work anything with labour. The Espresso Pump or somewhere might have a vacancy, but bags of coffee beans were probably as inconvenient as meat, and she’d be so slow on the machines with only one hand…

Suddenly, however, Buffy’s thoughts were cut off as she realised Kate was still talking. The woman was moving her coffee cup between hands, looking up at Buffy with caution on her face. “…bad idea, and I know not much has changed, but do you want to come along? With me, I mean? I’ve dealt with this guy on demon cases before, and the directions I’ve got for the lead go from the sewer grate behind – Willy’s? Which I think is the demon bar on the other side of town? There shouldn’t be any trouble; apparently this guy we’re looking for’s not a threat, but I’m sure you intimidate better than me.”

“Huh?” Buffy asked, a little confused. She remembered the job offer, of course she did, but it hadn’t crossed her mind since getting fired, and it looked really different now. A job, any job, where her employer knew who she was, who would believe her healing and knew she wouldn’t sue… It was too good to be true. “You still want me to work for you?”

“I know, I know.” Kate sighed, shaking her head. “I shouldn’t be so persistent; it’s a really bad trait for anything other than police work, but yeah, I thought I’d see –”

“I’ll take it,” Buffy told her before the chance of employment could vanish completely, heart thumping in her chest. At Kate’s surprised stare, she blushed. “I mean, I’ll come along with you now, so we can see if we can work together.” Colleaguey-friends – or one at least, could this be a chance for that too? “That was – you’re still offering to… I mean, you’ll pay me, right?”

Cracking a wider grin now, Kate thrust forward the coffee cup, which obviously had been held but otherwise looked untouched. “Here,” she said. “Take this.” Speechlessly, and strangely touched, Buffy did as Kate explained, “Gotta get you looking the part.” Then she pulled out her car keys and tossed them over. Of course, Buffy’s left hand wasn’t quite up for catching them, but her co-ordination was still enough to scoop them out of the air into the recess of the coffee cup’s plastic lid. She wasn’t _entirely_ off her game. “I’ll meet you in the car,” Kate finished, wincing slightly in apology for the multiple item pass. Still, she apparently expected Buffy to remember what her car looked like, which was a nice gesture of faith. “Just gonna get myself another latte for the road.”

Not sure what else to do, Buffy held the keys to the cup with her fingers and took a sip of her first cop coffee. It – well, it was strange, but it actually didn’t taste too bad.

* * *

They drove over to Willy’s, during which time Buffy realised that it had been so long since she’d been in a car that the experience had somehow become a novelty. Kate had driven her to the Espresso Pump earlier that week, but she’d been so terrified she was about to get arrested that she hadn't noticed the ride at all. Now she did. The effortlessness of it all, the warmth and the speed – she almost couldn’t believe the way that Sunnydale went past the window, a short walk gone in a minute, a long walk gone in a few more - until they were soon already on the other side of town.

It wasn’t even that nice a car. It smelt of car heater-gasoline smell, and the dash was definitely plastic; the analogue clock had stopped in the centre console at two-twenty-three. But Buffy felt like she was sitting in an armchair and she was moving: however far it meant she’d fallen, the sensation was too damn pleasant to complain about. Especially as she took her next round of meds.

“I’m gonna park underneath that streetlamp,” Kate commented as the bar passed them by on the right, street empty in front of it. “We get a lot of reports of stolen cars around here; it might make a difference when the sun sets.”

At first, Buffy nodded, not really paying attention and not worried about a fifty yard detour, but then the rest of what Kate was saying sank in. _Huh?_ “No one steals cars in Sunnydale,” she said, wrinkling her nose - before immediately worrying what she'd said came across like a snooty small-town-versus-city thing. “I mean,” she explained, “not enough that areas are known for it.” Looking out on the streets, she tried to remember what she’d seen around here. “You don’t even see that many humans round here any…” When her gaze connected with Willy’s bar again, she worked it out. “Oh, you know what that’ll be?” Kate didn’t look like she did. “Drunk Chirago demons. They’re like tanks, but they’re really sensitive to alcohol and they like smashing stuff.” They were pretty harmless otherwise, like savannah herbivores; she and Spike had helped one home once. “Yeah,” Buffy decided, remembering what her mom had said that time. “The insurance companies here won’t cover for vandalism ‘cause it’s really common, cars all squashed or broken. I guess people worked out they could say their ride got stolen instead.”

“Huh.” Kate nodded, taking it all in as she switched off the gas, parking them by the streetlight. “See, this is why I need you around,” she added with a smile. “But I guess not parking by the bar is still a good idea?”

“You betcha,” Buffy agreed, unbuckling. She tried not to over-smile in response.

After Kate had locked the car, likely not entirely convinced there were _no_ car thieves around, they made their way to the sewer grate. Willy’s was just opening, the neon light on outside, but it didn’t look exactly occupied. That was good, because there was no one to watch as they opened the manhole, Kate’s inexperienced hand on the crowbar and Buffy’s second-hand advice supposedly telling her how.

They climbed down into darkness without a hitch. Without thinking, Buffy replaced the grate one-handed with her legs twined around the ladder, coffee between her thumb and index finger. She shrugged as Kate complained, “I should have done that!” This really was her comfort zone; everything seemed easy.

 _Well,_ Buffy thought as she hopped to the ground, unable to bring her left arm up to balance and stumbling slightly. _Kind of._

“OK…” Kate said, pulling a notebook and a thin flashlight from the inside of her jacket. “Right.” She sounded like she didn’t know what to say. Buffy wondered whether maybe what she’d done counted as showing off. “It isn’t so far, I don’t think,” Kate continued. “I don’t have that many directions, but the guy said a few of the stretches were pretty long.”

“Great,” Buffy replied, finishing the last of her coffee. Feeling almost cheery for real, she ditched the empty cup in the corner with a load of other trash. That didn’t count as littering, did it? “Lead the way.”

Thankfully, Kate was paying more attention to her notebook and they set off in a companionable silence.

Mission: Make Friends with Kate didn’t immediately get off the way Buffy had hoped. This was mainly because she couldn’t think of anything to talk about. Her mind kept coming back to Warren, but she really didn’t think that was the best topic to bring up. And what if she wasn’t even meant to be making conversation? All she knew about policing came from cop shows and being wanted for arrest, so she was hardly going to know if cops actually far preferred to work in silence. The Initiative certainly had.

But then, proving she was at least different from the Initiative in one respect, Kate began, “So… Am I driving you downstate Monday?”

Oh yeah, Buffy remembered, thinking back to what Tara had said earlier. There was that topic too. Apparently Kate was doing her a lot of favours today. “Um, if that’s OK?” she said, before hastily adding, “Thanks, by the way.” Maybe it was best if she explained, “I’m meeting the guy who worked with my mom when she was alive; she was selling him… Uh, I mean…”

“Yeah, Tara told me what’s going on,” Kate replied, cutting in as Buffy tried to find the words, checking their direction again. For a moment she was silent, awkwardly so as if there was something she wasn’t saying, but then she continued, “I’ve got a day off, so it’s LA or Judge Judy… And he sounds like a nice guy,” she changed tack, cutting into her own sentence with a glance Buffy’s way. “I mean, your mom clearly got on with him fine if they were going to try dating.”

“I hope so,” Buffy agreed, trying to feel more comfortable. “I didn’t really…” She shrugged. “He sent flowers after their date and he came to the funeral, I think – but Giles talked to him, we didn’t – and I don’t really know my mom’s type, you know? There was my dad, who was great, I guess, until he walked away from eighteen years of marriage, and there was Ted the cookie-drugging abusive-murderer robot guy…” Now Kate was looking at her askance, so Buffy thought that maybe it was best not to linger on the subject. “But I think she and Giles liked each other too, in a just-friends-except-that-one-time-Buffy-tries-to-forget-about way, and Giles was always pretty straight up. Maybe it’s like that.”

“You’re gonna have to tell me who this Giles guy is sometime,” Kate commented, flashing the flashlight around the next corner. “But I get what you mean. In my experience,” she continued absently, “it’s pretty hard to tell if your type sucks or if you’re just really, really unlucky.”

“Amen to that,” Buffy agreed easily. “I think the jury’s still out on my love life.”

With a snort, Kate asked, “Still figuring out how you feel about Spike, huh?”

That almost brought Buffy to a halt, but she just about managed to keep walking. Even as she bristled. It was probably true that she was still figuring things, but she didn’t want to bring that up with Kate. The other woman had said she was fine with Buffy dating a vampire, but Buffy couldn’t be certain that that meant she was _OK_ OK, or whether she was simply willing to not bring it up.

Besides, it wasn’t like it was a hundred per cent OK with Buffy. When she was around Spike, that was… Everything felt easier. If the sewers were more her comfort zone than the DMP, then Spike _was_ her comfort zone, period. At least over the last few months. But that didn’t mean she knew what to do about him when he wasn’t around – and it was probably the same for him. Maybe. She kind of hoped it wasn’t. They didn't need to be so similar as he thought they were.

There were always things about him that she wouldn’t understand, after all. “What’s it like,” Buffy asked Kate, spontaneously as they turned a corner and continued down yet another dingy stretch of sewer, “killing people?” And, yep, they were back on Warren. Buffy should have known she couldn’t let go. All the same, it felt like too rare an opportunity to be able to talk to someone about this stuff, a human someone who carried a gun and probably shot sometimes with the aim to kill.

Startled nonetheless, Kate turned her head Buffy’s way. “What do you mean?” she asked, at least not baulking away.

“I mean,” Buffy explained, hesitantly, “when you actually think about it.” Not the guilt afterwards, because she knew about that – and she knew about Spike’s lack of the same just as well. And in the heat of combat, Buffy knew she’d probably killed humans when Knights of Ren Faire Doom had attacked them on the RV. But that was even more reason why she wanted to know. What made it OK? What didn’t? Why didn’t she mind that Kate had done it, when she _knew_ , if it had been Spike, she wouldn’t have felt she could be with him anymore?. “Not in self-defence or anything,” she tried to explain, hoping for an answer, “but to defend other people, maybe, or whatever.” For lunch, that was the other option, but Kate wouldn’t know about that. Lunch was always not OK. “What’s that like?”

For a little way, Kate didn’t reply. The water dripped and their footsteps sloshed, but she didn’t say anything. Eventually, however, she took a breath and sighed, before she said, “I’m not sure what you expect me to say.” She had a gun holstered inside her jacket right now, Buffy knew, if not two. Did cops get two? “You go out and you do what you’ve gotta do. Sometimes, if there’s a threat, that means putting someone down. You don’t go looking for it, but the action itself… I can’t imagine it’s any different from when you stake a vampire. It’s necessary. You do it.”

Whatever Buffy had been expecting Kate to say, that really wasn’t it. Completely putting aside the issue that Buffy enjoyed killing vampires every now and again, killing humans was meant to _mean_ something. It was a big metaphysical hoo-ha, utterly different from killing vampires, who were already dead. Even when she talked to the ones she slayed or played jokes on them, they weren’t the same as _people_. So, maybe, if Spike died right now it would hurt her as much as, if not more, than anybody else, but that didn’t mean anything about vampires generally.

“The way I see it,” Kate said, continuing before Buffy had a chance to respond. “People have a choice. Maybe vampires and demons don’t, maybe they’re programmed towards felonies –” She didn’t sound that convinced, and when she put it like that Buffy almost felt like she agreed. “– and maybe people get pushed into situations they never wanted to be in. But there’s a point where people make themselves a real threat to others, when you can’t trust them at that moment. At that point, if you stop valuing other people’s lives, you don’t get the courtesy of people valuing your own, you know?”

Did Buffy know? She couldn’t be sure – and by that point, as they kept on walking, she couldn’t even quite remember why she’d asked the question. Maybe that was why she gave Spike a pass these days. Not only because he’d been forced to stop killing people, but because he’d started caring? Not that that caring always came out in the best possible way. He had some pretty not-OK ideas about making money.

“Hold up,” Kate said suddenly, looking at her notebook. “Can you hear that?”

Trying to distract herself from thoughts of Spike, not quite managing to, Buffy listened. There was a sound, a very low, hollow pulsing in the distance. It was familiar, but out of place. “Is that,” Buffy began, listening more closely as the sound grew louder, clearly coming from the direction they were headed. “Is that – music?”

Kate checked her directions one last time. “I guess our lead must be a music lover,” she confirmed. Buffy’s heart sank. It couldn’t be, could it? But then, she supposed, it would be the perfect accompaniment to her getting fired…

They came closer, round another bend, where the trash being sludged along the sewer began to take a very definite bias towards glass bottles. It seemed like even more damning evidence, especially as the music was becoming more and more discernible now, almost familiar. There was still a chance her mind was making false connections, all based on thinking about one certain vampire far too much for her own good, but it seemed less and less likely the closer they got.

There were other demons who lived underneath Sunnydale, right? _Please let it not be him._

In the final stretch of sewer, Buffy was just about able to start making out the treble part of the sound, but it was still too indistinct to recognise. But then, just when she was about to stop straining her ears, there was a screech of a heavy storm door being pushed open into the sewer, right in front of them. A wall of sound came bellowing out, a woman’s voice stridently in key and one man’s voice shouting along.

“ _… IN A STATE OF CA-TA-LEP-SEE-EE; CAN I RE-AL-LEE –_ ”

It was Spike. Of course it was Spike. With two black plastic trash bags in hand, which he was nonchalantly throwing into the stream (evil litterbug), it took him a moment to realise they were six feet away. They who had come to beat him up for information about LA-scale crime. Yeah, this was the not-OK part.

“ _– EXIST?_ ” he finished as their eyes met.


	3. Hello Glass Ceiling.

Somehow, Buffy wasn’t actually angry. That was the first thing she realised, staring at Spike. The second thing was that she wasn’t actually surprised, either. This all seemed so inevitable somehow, like she’d been waiting for it all this time.

Nonetheless, that didn’t stop the disappointment which flooded into her stomach, nor the mondo heapton of guilt, clenching around her heart. This wasn’t her fault, she tried to convince herself – whatever he’d got mixed up in, it wasn’t. It only really felt like it was.

When Spike saw her, his face lit up, shaken from its punk scowl even as the music bellowed on behind him, out into the tunnel. “Oh, hello love!” Eagerly, he turned around and killed the music with a screech of vinyl, leaving all three of them with the heavy, deafening silence.

The worst thing was that, when he looked at her, she had an overwhelming urge to tell him about the horribleness of her day. It was the comfort zone thing again, even in the middle of all this. He’d scowl and say he was sorry, then tell her ‘I told you so’ until she insisted (the truth) that it was the DMP’s stupid lawyers that stopped her working, not her, and she’d have made it through to the next day if they’d let her. And he’d stop arguing, or she’d kiss him until he did, and everything would be easy and consuming after that, leaving her happy and free.

“Spike,” was what she said instead, trying out the closest thing to a cop-voice she had. It made him pay attention, at least. Her shoulders were already straight from the brace, so as she continued she raised her chin. It was a little imperious, but she was working with what she had. “Kate has –” Her error then was looking at Kate, who was less about the professional demeanour and more about the shock coloured by at least a certain level of betrayal. Which wasn’t fair, at all, because she was supposed to be suspicious anyway, generally, and stony-faced in any eventuality.

Buffy turned back to Spike – he was easier, and actually made her feel less guilty. “Kate has some questions for you,” she finished.

Nonplussed, Spike’s mouth opened to an O. He frowned, glancing between them, but seemed to decide that Kate was the better choice for him, because he watched her while she spoke. “Yeah,” Kate confirmed, inhaling like she was recovering herself. “So, here’s the thing. We’re investigating the supply chain for a gang down in the city: drugs, firearms, money, the works. Now, someone I know, someone who knows you, he seems to think you can help us with that investigation. You wanna tell us why that is?”

“Eh?” was Spike’s immediate response, coupled with a look of confusion so spontaneous it caused a flare of hope in Buffy’s chest. He continued, “What are you blathering about? Why would I know anything –” Then, however, his eyes went wide and Buffy’s heart sank again. “Oh, bollocks.”

The moment her eyes began to smart was the moment she needed to act, so she barrelled forward, scattering sewer water from her shoes and aiming past him, to the doorway.

“Buffy!” he immediately responded, scrambling to block her path. “I’m holding them for a – a mate of mine, I swear!” There was a brief struggle where he tried to avoid her left arm and she tried to push past without it. In the end she gritted her teeth and shoved him with both hands, refusing to look at him even when he immediately backed away. She blamed the pain on him. “The rest of it,” he continued nonetheless, desperate, “I don’t know anything about that, I’m telling you. He’s – there’s pay for it, yeah, but – Christ…”

Striding on, she came to a halt about three feet into his bedroom, where the new addition to the décor was immediately pretty damn obvious.

“What,” she demanded through gritted teeth, “are _they?_ ” There in the corner of the underground chamber was what looked like a nest of slimy green eggs. Demon eggs, the bad kind. Not good. There and then, she knew it. It was going to be something like the kitten poker, weird and gross and demony, where these were the caviar of the demon world, highly prized and illegally imported to Spike, who clearly hadn’t thought for one moment about the consequences.

He really didn’t seem to be getting it right now, after all. “What d’you mean by that?” he asked, sounding affronted. Her straight back apparently wasn’t threatening enough. “It’s a clutch of eggs, innit.”

Oh, now she was definitely annoyed by _that_. The anger was getting easier, a hell of a lot easier, and she made sure he knew it as she spun around, took one step towards him with her right arm raised as some sort of threat.

Wide-eyed, he backpedalled, literally stepping backwards and jumping as he knocked into Kate’s crossed arms. “You know as much as me!” he insisted in a panic. “Tork, the git’s reptilian; figured he wanted to skip babysitting duty, watch the game, have the lads round – I dunno, maybe go on holiday, get his claws done… Look, I didn’t ask, all right?” He continued desperately, fervent with movement which seemed to quicken the longer she stood still. “He was paying,” Spike declared; “I needed the cash – Buffy, _please!_ Listen to me, will you? I promise…”

That much she knew to interrupt, because no way was she letting him make promises he couldn’t keep, even if he didn’t realise she was listening to him make them. “Kate has questions,” she told him, shortly, like he was any other – suspect or lead or whatever he was supposed to be. It had to be that way, didn’t it? “Answer them.” She held up her hands, backing away, disgusted. “I am _out_ of this conversation.”

Not far from Spike, Kate looked slightly startled at being called on. It didn’t look like she didn’t have questions, but it was almost as if she’d assumed she’d be dismissed – which was ridiculous, as far as Buffy was concerned. Why would she dismiss Kate from her own investigation?

It was only for a moment, however, after which Kate cleared her throat. “Right. Easy questions then – how much money?”

“Sorry?” Spike replied, not looking her way. Out of the corner of Buffy’s eye, she could tell he was looking at her, probably miserably, but she had nothing more to say to him. Not right now. Her mind was shutting down. “What –” At last he seemed to get the picture. “Oh, right, yeah, a thousand, he said.”

“A thousand dollars?” Casually, Kate started walking around the crypt, picking up nicknacks and inspecting them. “Didn’t that seem like a lot for babysitting?” This had to be a cop trick, didn’t it, the studied indifference? Buffy imagined she should work on cultivating her own.

“Not really,” Spike replied, toes bouncing. He didn’t like her touching his things, that much was obvious, but she wasn’t doing anything he could legitimately complain about, especially not with his image. Served him right. “He would only give me two-fifty up front, said he’ll be back by the end of the week. I figure it’ll be _next_ week and I’ll have to push for six hundred. That’s how demon deals work – you’d be a complete mug to take a job for less than double what you want.”

“What guarantees d’you have that he’ll come back at all?” Now Kate paused, turning her back on Spike’s dresser. It was a weird juxtaposition. After all, that was usually where naked Spike leaned to have his post-sex cigarette; the two were associated in Buffy’s mind. “What if he’s left you with these permanently?”

Now Spike crossed his arms, shuffling with the first traces of suspicion. “Why would he do that?” he asked. “Eggs must mean something to him, why else would he pay…”

“Maybe he’s paying to have them taken off his hands,” Kate suggested, comical frown on her face as she rattled through some other suggestions. “Maybe he passes down the wrong street, gets killed. Maybe he’s set you up. Maybe this shit’s too hot and he’s nervous.”

Spike’s reply came in a drawl. “Yeah… Or maybe the bloke _you_ talked to set me up, and these things are as harmless as ostrich eggs.”

Could that be possible? It felt pathetic to hope for it, but Buffy was feeling pretty pathetic anyway. She didn’t know who Kate had met with and she _was_ new in town – maybe she’d not realised she was being lied to…

But no. Kate had her eyebrows raised in the universal expression of ‘how stupid do you think I am?’ – even though it wasn’t directed at her, Buffy still felt ashamed. “And why exactly should I be the one who’s been lied to, here? I’m not the one who went looking for a job, who’s desperate for –”

“Oi!” Spike interrupted, which made Buffy risk a brief glance at his face. “I’m not desperate for anything, let’s get that clear.” He did look slightly desperate, though, with worry all around his eyes and more than a little shake in his raised hand. She recognised the feeling from about an hour ago. And it had always been obvious: Spike was way better at talking himself _into_ situations than getting out of them afterwards. He was probably afraid that this was where it would all finally come crashing down, the life or whatever it was he’d managed to build here. That was what Buffy was worried about, anyway.

“Right,” Kate was continuing, even as Buffy’s brief glance turned into a proper watch of Spike’s reactions. “You’re not living in a cemetery without any means of income, nothing particularly valuable to your name, while your girlfriend gets near-mortally wounded, fired from her job and has a sister whose friends’ tastes usually run on Daddy’s credit card.”

Hey! Buffy thought, defensively. She wasn’t that much of a charity case. Obviously this was about Spike, not her, and Kate had to use what she had, but that wasn’t any reason to –

“Buffy didn’t get fired from her job,” Spike was saying, dismissively. “She works bloody hard in that place – they’d never…” Then he was looking at her, truth dawning on his features. “She –” It didn’t look like he was enjoying the experience; she felt horribly flattered by the anger, awful about the way she wanted it. “Oh, I will _kill_ them,” he finished, storming her way. “I’ll take every single one of their wretched hides and I’ll –”

“Spike!” she interrupted, red from embarrassment and feeling squirmy in her stomach. It took a moment to remember she wasn’t looking at him, but then she quickly ducked away from his open, honest anger, which was a hell of a lot nicer than any ‘I told you so’, even if this really wasn’t the time for it. “You’re being interrogated,” she muttered, not quite able to summon the energy to yell at him. “Act like it.”

“Actually,” Kate commented, shoes clacking over the stone floor, “I think we’re done here.” There was a kind smile on her face when Buffy looked up, almost as if to say, _I’m sorry your boyfriend’s such a loser, but I don’t figure his accessorising was conscious. You might wanna punch him for getting himself involved, though._

Possibly she was imagining the last part – but Buffy was sure a good right hook would make her feel better. At least she hoped so, otherwise she was clearly doomed.

“I’ve got some things to finish up at the station,” Kate continued, “maybe put in a few calls about this Tork guy – but you don’t need to come with me for that. I can see you tomorrow, Buffy, around lunchtime? We can get things sorted out.” She was watching Buffy sympathetically, suddenly most definitely looking thirty to her twenty-one. “D’you need a ride anywhere?”

That wasn’t the real question she was asking. The real offer was to give her an excuse to leave Spike behind in the crypt and let him stew for a while, come back when she’d figured out what she wanted to do. But since Buffy doubted there was any amount of self-reflection that would figure this for her, she decided it was best to stay put. “No, I’m fine,” she said, glumly. “Thanks.”

“OK – see you tomorrow.” With that, Kate was heading back into the sewers – until she paused. “Oh, and Spike?” she warned. “If he does come back, you call me and you call Buffy, all right?”

“Fine,” he groused, following after her so he could shut the door once she’d left. It shut them both in quite absolutely.

As he turned back round to face her, Buffy was filled with the overwhelming urge to either cry or slap him. Since she had no intention of crying today, she went with the latter.

“Ow!” Spike said as he palm hit, surprised.

She hadn’t hit him that hard – but maybe that was the surprise. “What the hell were you thinking?” she shouted anyway, at last, spinning on her heel as he pushed past her, following him back into the bedroom. “In what world of what freaking dimension did you think this was a good idea?”

“I did it for you!” he shouted back, turning on her, looking aggrieved.

He was going to look a hell of a lot more than that by the time she was done with him. “And I told you not to! I _told_ you, Spike!” She paused, breathing, voice already tired of shouting even though she wasn’t sure how else to express what she was feeling. Part of her still felt like this was another minor argument, like they were back in the sewer that morning or something and one of them was about to start with the kissing, move on from the stalemate that way. But she couldn’t ignore this, could she? The guilt was kicking in again and she knew, she knew this was one of those things that really had to be worked out. And so she forced herself past the feeling, attempted a calm sort of anger. “I said I didn’t want you getting money for me,” she continued, not sure how she could have made herself more clear. “In what way was that _ever_ an invitation to do something like this?”

“Yeah,” Spike agreed, like this all made perfect sense to him. At least he was calming down too. “You said that _you_ didn’t want any money – but what am _I_ supposed to do? Loaf around, clinging to your purse strings? What if we went out – can hardly eat the waiter, can I?” _That_ made Buffy shudder, but she fought particularly hard to let the tale of killings past pass her by. Another argument for another day. “And what about the little bit?” Spike continued. “What am I meant to do with her? Not get her things? All her little girly mates are –”

“You don’t need to buy her _anything_!” Buffy interrupted, shocked and embarrassed that he had, that he must have, that she’d never really thought about it. _She_ was supposed to provide for Dawn. “She’s my sister, Spike, I’m the one –”

His voice rose again, over hers. “Yeah, well, she’s _my_ bloody – Dawn! And I can buy her what I like!”

“Great!” Buffy threw up her hands. “So now Social Services is gonna get you for _grooming_ as well! That’s…”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Buffy,” he sneered at her.

Disgusted, she paused, shaking her head. This really wasn’t the point she’d been trying to make, but it _did_ annoy her. Spike wasn’t supposed to care about Dawn for Dawn’s own sake – it was all far too not selfish, and that was what he was meant to be, in the end. She couldn’t make it compute, certainly couldn’t when she remembered that he was a guy long past his centenary and her sister only just fifteen. OK, so it was probably just as creepy that the same guy was into _her_ , and that she was maybe, a little, possibly into him… But that was different, what with all the fighting and the death threats, followed by the stalking and the secret confidences – and he was hot. They were really hot together.

OK, so maybe that was all weirder. But it definitely was different.

“Look,” Buffy said, slowly and carefully, trying to extricate herself from that tangled train of thought. “all I’m saying is that you can’t _do_ stuff like this.” She looked over to the eggs again, which were still green and slimy in the soft glow of candlelight. Each of them was bigger than a football, bigger than a beach ball – she could only imagine what was going to come out of them. “You have no idea at all what they are. They could – even if this guy does come back for them, you don’t know what he’s gonna do, or where these things might turn up, who they might _hurt_.” It would be her fault, wouldn’t it, if that happened?

She expected Spike to say that he hadn’t known the eggs were dangerous, but he didn’t. Of course. “What?” he said instead, absolutely defensive with his muscle ticking in his jaw. “You think about that all the time, do you? You think that’s what I’m meant to do, any time I think about taking a job from a mate, is that it? Before I play a round of cards?” He scoffed, like the idea was unimaginable, like she expected too much from him. “The world’s full of demons out there – I _am_ one – but now I’m meant to avoid all of them and their dodgy schemes, just in case it turns bad?” Apparently her face was saying ‘yes’ like she meant it to, because he threw his hands up in the air, started pacing. “It’s not like all this won’t happen without me! The only difference here is that the money goes in _my_ wallet rather than some other bloke’s!”

“ _No,_ ” Buffy informed him, not even sure how this logic worked, “the difference here is that you’re _helping!_ ” That at least stopped him in his tracks. With a look of confused suspicion he turned to her, waiting. She sighed, then kept talking, “I don’t know how I can trust you when you do stuff like this.” There, that was her point. She wasn’t quite sure where it had come from, but it was definitely her point. “How am I supposed to, when you apparently don’t even understand what I’m saying?” It made her heart heavy to say it, but she had to.

His look of suspicion didn’t change. For a moment she thought she could see some bitter humour like a flare of light across his face, but then she was certain she must have imagined it. His arms were crossed, rings on his fingers glinting – on a normal day she’d be sucking them off about now. This wasn’t that. Stupid Saturday. “You saying you trusted me before, then, is that it?” he asked, accusatory. “Like one of the Scoobies, am I?”

“What?” she asked, off-balance. When was that ever something you consciously decided? How was she supposed to know? Why was he assuming she didn’t? “Don’t change the subject.”

“I’m _not_ ,” he bit out, annunciating every syllable. “It’s the subject you started with, walking in here, talking about trust like it’s the bedrock of what we have.” Then he sighed, looking away from her, the profile of his face defined against the dark. “We both know trust’s got nothing to do with why you bother.”

“What…” Suddenly, Buffy was flashing back to standing in her bathroom, the night before all this, tumbling down from her orgasm while Spike stared at her, amazed. He’d said something about trust then, hadn’t he, about how he didn’t think she trusted him – but she hadn’t replied, the idea of it too much. Apparently he’d taken that in the negative.

God, she was a fool, wasn’t she? She’d got things completely wrong.

And it was hurting - that was hurt, wasn't it, that she could feel? More knife-like than the guilt, it was burning embarrassment, mixed up with that old hopelessness. Oh, she could feel it.

“Look, it doesn’t matter.” Spike was still talking, glancing down – but it did matter, didn’t it? What did he think of her, if he thought she’d never trusted him? Why hadn’t she seen this coming? “It’s not like were some doddering pair of old marrieds. We don’t need trust, can get by with other things.” Breath shuddered through him, like he was trying to convince himself as much as her.

But she didn’t really care about that. “And what, in your opinion,” she began dangerously, heading back to anger now - or trying to at least, “are these _other things_?” She had really, really had it up to her highlights with guys who thought they knew better than her what she got out of a relationship. Really a lot. And yet it looked like she’d failed to let this guy know, yet again. It always came back to this shame.

At that point, Spike looked up, eyes piercing through hers as he came a step closer, sucked his cheeks in, dared danger. “Well,” he said, flicking his gaze down her body, back up, “what d’you think?” She crossed her good arm over her chest, stared him down – but that just made him snort. “Even when we think it’s more, it’s all just desire, innit? Blood and dear old passion, burning and consuming till there’s nothing left but pleasure.” Losing eye contact, he looked down, one hand of his ghosting near her. He focused on her so hard that she wondered if he was even listening to what he was saying. Because she sure as hell was, and it was like an ice bucket full of clarity. “It’s what lets you shag a dead man,” he continued, a sad smile on his face, “what makes you like pain…”

His hand was edging closer to her wounded shoulder, a memory of the night before; she’d had enough. “Touch me and lose a limb,” she spat, stepping to the side and past him. Clearly he had no _idea_ what it meant for her to feel the things she felt with him, to do them, let them happen. Clearly… Where the hell was that ladder? “If you wanna get burned up,” she managed to get out as she scrambled up, boots running click-clack-clonk on the rungs, “you be my guest, you know, go get destroyed.” About now he would be coming out of his self-pitying daze, but she wouldn’t look back, wouldn’t care. She refused to. “Just do it with some other girl than me,” she spat, finally.

Abruptly, he seemed to actually realise she was leaving: he shouted from behind her – “Buffy!” – and his voice was different, more recognisable. It slowed her down, a little, but she refused to listen, just like she’d probably been refusing to all along. Maybe she _was_ majorly self-absorbed, just like Spike said, but that was enough reason to leave, wasn’t it? “Buffy!” he was still shouting, coming up the ladder behind her. “Jesus, wait, don’t walk away, don’t –”

“Why?” she suddenly found herself shouting, toes spinning in dust to face him. Maybe she couldn’t quite bring herself to walk out the front door yet. But it hurt; everything was hurting. “Why shouldn’t I walk away?” Dammit, she was fighting tears, and that wasn’t even fair. “What the hell is this; what the hell do you think this is?”

“Told you before and I’ll say it till you get it,” he insisted, words coming out with perfect enunciation, like he was too concerned with this for his lungs to remember exertive breathing. “We _have_ a relationship. It’s not pretty, but it’s _real_ , you can’t –”

“No,” she swore at him, her voice gone thick now. She had to get out of there. “We _had_ a relationship,” she said, refusing to let him redefine it. “We were building one. And right now you’re the one who’s making it ugly. I –” She choked, couldn’t quite bring herself to say the words to end things, not when he was looking at her with amazement and pulling all the feelings out of her that his respect and love evoked. Nonetheless, she managed, “I need some space.” And then she broke eye contact, enough that she could get out.

* * *

She was crying by the time she hit the cemetery gates. She didn’t mean to and she certainly didn’t want to, but the tears came over her before she could stop them. Clutching a railing, her feet only crossed from path to sidewalk by force of will, but then she was collapsing. Her meds had given up again and her pain was all too much alive; she’d turned into her right arm, but she couldn’t stop her shoulders shaking. Pain seared through her.

The thing was, she knew how this went. The unemployment, the purposelessness, the fight with a guy, the near-mortal wound; she’d had them all, usually in combination, but she didn’t want… She didn’t know what the point was of being alive when it all came back around to this.

It shouldn’t have worked out this way. It was supposed to hurt a lot more when she was fired from her job, when she discovered her boyfriend-guy was doing shady deals; it wasn’t supposed to matter what Spike thought of her and them. They were just doing what they were doing – certainly she’d never cared about defining it before. And yet here she was, a whole day of awful eclipsed in a moment.

She knew what she had to do, no matter what. She had to pick herself up, wipe away her tears and go home, tell Dawn she was something like a police-detective-paralegal and work out what she had in her wardrobe that told the world that too. Then she would go to sleep, get up, fight crime – or whatever – come home and do it all over again. It was easy. More than that, it was obvious. The whole week was planned out for her, one moment at a time, and there would even be money at the end of it, but... But...

The problem was that she couldn’t convince her muscles there was any reason they should pick themselves up and move. Her brain could only circle around her shame and embarrassment and loss, big dark spirals she couldn’t escape from. Even if she did get on with her week, play things out the way she should, she wasn’t sure where they were meant to vanish to.

But that was stupid. Even as she felt herself sob, she knew it was stupid. She’d lived OK without Spike – freaking _Spike_ – for a long time. It _didn’t matter_ what he said, or what he thought about her. She could happily live her life without him. All she had to do was do it.

And there was no reason to be surprised about his feelings, not really. If he only wanted her for the sex, if he thought she only wanted him for the sex, that didn’t even matter. It wasn’t like she’d ever told him anything different, so she hadn’t lost anything. Maybe she _had_ only wanted him for sex. She was one horny chick sometimes, hadn’t they discovered that?

That could still be true, couldn't it? All she needed to do was stop being pathetic crying-in-a-cemetery lady.

“Hey, lady,” some guy was indeed asking her as she opened her eyes. He was standing in the cemetery, watching her cry. Seriously, that was enough reason to stop. “Are you OK?”

Especially since he was a vampire. She could tell by the raver clothes, but also the tingles. Freaking awesome. “No,” she told him bluntly, remembering that with vampires she didn’t hold back. Wiping at her eyes, she added, “Leave me alone,” just in case he would.

Unfortunately, this vampire was one of the impatient ones, so he pounced a lot faster than she was ready for. Reaching into her coat for a stake, Buffy bit her lip as she raised a kick, relying on her left arm for balance and embracing yet more goddamn pain.

Figuring out who she was, the vampire slipped into game face as he stumbled backwards, growl rumbling through the evening air. _Stupid,_ Buffy told herself. _Never leave yourself open like that._ She could ready herself for attack and she did, but she wasn’t looking forward to it, mind more on a hot bath and some of Willow’s chocolate.

Just then, however, the head of a crossbow bolt appeared through through the bright orange t-shirt and his body crumbled around it. For one complete anti-climax.

There was a streetlight by Restfield's gates, not far from where she was standing. Its illumination didn’t reach too far into the cemetery, but now Spike appeared in it, crossbow shaking in his hand. _Oh._

“If you don’t get yourself home safe,” he snarled at her, voice a little incongruous with what looked like wetness around his eyes, “I’ll fucking kill you myself. I bloody mean it.”

“God, can you not _ever_ do what you’re told?” Buffy shouted back, adrenaline from the fight kicking in way too late. She had _stormed out_. How the hell did he not get that? Sure, he was soulless and clueless about relationships, apparently, but she had stormed pretty damn hard. Following after that was nothing else but rude.

And he had _not_ seen her cry. She refused to believe it.

“As you delight in saying,” Spike hissed on, strangely not coming any closer, “I’m _evil_. I do what I like – sod everyone else.”

His voice cracked a little on the last words, but she wasn’t listening. This was not the time when she listened to Spike being in pain. Nor was this the time when she allowed herself to be in pain, especially when the two correlated pretty hard. “Go home, Spike,” she told him, moderating her voice past its own shakiness. “We aren’t talking right now, not tonight.”

Completely goddamn contrary, this was what made him take two steps closer, to about six away from her. “Well, when will we be?” he asked, lowering his voice, crossbow still in hand. “What am I supposed to do?”

What the hell was _she_ supposed to do, tingling with his proximity? “I don’t know,” she replied, shaking her head. She didn’t want to be having this conversation, had pretty clearly run away from it, but now somehow they were talking this stuff again. “I need to think about things.” That much she knew. “If what you said, if that’s really how you feel…”

“It doesn’t have to be,” Spike cut in desperately, taking another two steps closer.

This time, Buffy backed away. “See, I need to think about how you think you can say that.” How could he say that? “What is… What is love to you, anyway?”

It was a rhetorical question and she was staring at the grass, but he answered all the same, voice still uncertain, “If I knew that, it wouldn’t be love. Would it?”

Closing her eyes, Buffy realised, “That’s not good enough for me.” Then she looked up, saw Spike looking terrified, explained, “There’s gotta be an answer, even if you don’t know it. I need to…” What did she need to do? “I need to work out if I figure we can be OK.”

“It was only some eggs,” he said hopelessly, as if it was only now dawning on him what this evening had become.

“It’s more than that,” Buffy replied, part of her disgusted but most of her still miserable. “Look,” she finished, holstering her stake. “I’ve gotta go.” With one last glimpse, she turned away. “Maybe I’ll see you tomorrow night, or whenever.”

That felt a little less final, didn’t it? She thought so as she walked away. The thing was, this time she really did feel it when the sense of him faded. And that – that definitely hurt.


	4. The Day after That (and the Day after That).

“So, are you gonna eat that, or wait until it grows wings and flies right down your oesophagus?”

It was the next morning. Buffy blinked, staring down at the store-brand, no-taste cereal she was apparently scooping out of the bowl and dropping off her spoon. Oh, look, she did it again.

“Ew, Dawn; gross.”

Willow and Dawn were there having breakfast with her. They both got up this time on a Sunday, didn’t they? Too many early mornings meant ten AM was a lie in.

Shift work hadn’t left her with much body clock to speak of, which was probably why she was dressed already. She should have slept longer, but there had been dreams, so she’d been awake, and that had got her up and downstairs, because apparently she’d lost the ability to stare at the ceiling and let it take over her brain until whenever she next needed her faculties. Now, so it turned out, aimless staring made her restless. And if not restless, then bored.

She blamed Spike. He’d been overstimulating.

“What? I’m thinking a wheatie demon would taste better. More protein.”

He’d left her in a position where she couldn’t switch off the world, could only ignore it going on around her as she scooped up white and brownish-grey, poured the excess milk from her spoon, let the sludge drop. And again. Bastard.

“… Did you already put sugar on?”

“Why is Spike such a goddamn idiot?” she asked at last, dropping her spoon with a clatter and glaring up accusingly into the kitchen, just so it was clear the other two were _not_ supposed to defend him right now.

Opposite her, Willow was wide-eyed, caught in her headlights and so still that she looked superimposed over the kitchen window’s view of the garden. “Uh…” she began – and Buffy almost immediately found herself irritated by the ‘I told you so’ she knew was coming.

“Shall I field this one?” Dawn interrupted, apparently feeling it. She was perched at Buffy’s side, her PJs and robe making a perfect ensemble of an outfit the way only a fifteen year old who had time to care about that stuff would construct. Her hair was shinier than Buffy’s had been in months, which could only be down to salon-price conditioner, whatever those totally fraudsome commercials said. Where was she getting that sort of hair product? That was what Buffy wanted to know. Either Dawn had gone delinquent or she’d had a helping hand – and Buffy was pretty sure she knew which one was more likely. “What’s Spike done now, Buffy?” she was asking then, like she didn’t already know.

Which was the reason why Buffy snorted. “Where do I even start?” she said, feeling discontent in her own clothes, which were, by the way, terribly put together. It was an inevitability, maybe, of being twenty-one with only one clean shirt and one fully functional arm, but it was irksome. “I tell him not to do something, and he doesn’t do it – but _then_ he goes and does something almost exactly the same, for pretty much the same reasons - _and_ he gets involved in the freaking criminal underworld while he’s at it!”

Willow coughed, failing to swallow on ‘criminal underworld’, but Dawn took it all in, nodding. “Well,” she said, as if she had the answer. “He _is_ Spike. You know?”

Buffy threw up her hands – _Ow; shit._ Or, more exactly, hand singular. “So what?” she demanded, hating how bright the morning was, full of sunshine. “What does that mean? I’m supposed to _accept_ it?”

The response to that was a pointed glare; Buffy threw one back, because she did _not_ accept the implied ‘duh’.

“I think what Dawn’s trying to say,” Willow interrupted carefully, breaking the stalemate. She seemed to regret it the moment Buffy turned back to her, gulping and hesitating, but she continued all the same, “is that, uh, dumb schemes and stuff – they’re part of who Spike is. And if you took them away, then he’d be someone else.” After a silence, she suggested, “Which would be bad?” Although she didn’t sound so sure, as far as Buffy was concerned.

Somewhere a rational part of Buffy’s mind could accept that Spike not being Spike would maybe, possibly, be more of a negative than a positive when you weighed it all up. At the same time… “I don’t think that’s true,” Buffy insisted, giving up on her cereal now and pushing it away from her. “Say there’s _all_ the time Spike’s being Spike, right?” She marked it out on the table, drawing a big circle with her hand. “And there’s all the time he spends listening to his poker buddies and figuring that their money-making schemes are gonna come off this time.” For that she simply splayed her palm flat on the counter, not exactly sure how much time that was, but definitely able to work out that it didn’t include the time he spent with her and the time he spent asleep recovering from his time with her. Maybe it was too self-satisfied to say, and she didn’t think she probably should say it in front of Dawn, but that was a _lot_ of time he didn’t have. “In what way is it too much to ask that he cuts that stuff out?”

“Uh…” Dawn spoke again, still in the same tone. “Because then he’d only be a fraction of a person?” She looked completely unimpressed, which Buffy thought was majorly unfair. “And it doesn’t even work like that anyway. It’s more like _this_ –” She drew a large circle with her forefinger, running through sugar grains and crumbs like Buffy was dusting from her hand. “– is all the time he spends trying to impress you or make you like him or whatever, while this –” A smaller circle marked itself out next to the bigger one, like the back wheel on a penny farthing. “– is the time he gets to be himself, with this –” Finally, she curled a small O inside the smaller circle. “– is when he has some fun with the dumb stuff. Only you care so not much about his life that you don’t even _notice_.”

Buffy refused to believe Spike spent anything like that amount of time trying to impress her, not least because that amount of time commitment was ridiculous but also because he didn’t do that great a job of it, if he really was trying. Also, she absolutely noticed. “That’s not true,” she said, shaking her head.

But Dawn was watching her face, and apparently didn’t like what she saw. “You know what?” she announced, screwing up her nose like she’d realised something upsetting – before she abruptly reversed her chair. “I’m going to the mall.” With a flick of her hair she was exiting the kitchen, before Buffy could even work out a reply. “I’ll see you when I go.”

Fortunately, even as Buffy watched in silence, hurt creeping through her irritation, Willow remembered to yell, “Hey! You leaving those dishes for the maid?” And thus brought back a grumbling Dawn back in to scrape her glass and bowl from the table and dump them in the sink, wash out the excess sludge.

Unfortunately, this didn’t give Buffy enough time to think of something to say, so she had nothing when Dawn shot her one last glare.

“So, uh…” Willow began once she’d gone. For a moment it sounded as if she was going to try and change the topic of conversation, but a nervous glance at Buffy's glower apparently persuaded her that that would not be a good idea. “I guess Dawnie identifies with Spike maybe a little, huh?”

“She shouldn’t,” Buffy muttered darkly as she sipped at some of her milk. The cereal had pretty much disintegrated into it now; it did not taste good. “She shouldn’t want to be like him.”

“Why not?” came the immediate response. Willow looked generally intrigued, shrugging like this was a problem they were discussing in class, even though she had to know, as Buffy did, that Spike was pretty much the worst role model for Dawn out there. Wasn't he? “He’s got that whole James Dean-Billy Idol I-don’t-give-a-crap vibe, which probably, you know, maybe seems cool if you’re a teenager who gives a crap about stuff. And hey –” Then Willow raised a hand, throwing the idea out there like she actually wanted Buffy to think. “– _you_ like him, so…”

“Do I?” Buffy asked, really not so sure about the answer. It certainly wasn’t a James Dean thing if she did. Spike was his best when he gave a crap, when he was underneath her and his big blue eyes were awed, terrified – like he was on a knife edge between heaven and damnation, and she had the power to… _Not a breakfast topic, Buffy._ Also, thinking about the good times hurt. “I guess I do sometimes,” she admitted, even though it felt like a risky confession in present company. A glance at Willow, however, seemed to suggest that had been assumed. “But he’s not…” She floundered. “Well, I mean…” Her milk-sludge had no answers; they would have to come from Willow. “You can supply his bad points.”

With sad eyes, Willow smiled – it looked like she already had a list of fifty in her head. Nonetheless, what she said was, “Don’t worry. I am so through commenting on other people’s choices." And then she ducked her gaze downwards. “That way lies badness.”

“Oh,” Buffy replied, feeling a frown tighten above her eyes as she tried to work out what the other woman meant. “OK.” It took a moment, but eventually it came to her. “Oh right,” she continued, trying for sympathetic. “I heard about what happened at the Magic Box. I’m sure Anya didn’t mean…”

Willow shrugged, before she took a slurp of her (almost) orange juice. “It’s OK,” she said. It didn’t actually look like it was, given her I’m-extra-chirpy expression, but Buffy wasn’t going to call her a liar. “She was right. I mean…” A little crinkle crossed her nose. “Kinda.” Then she took a deep breath and accepted, “I’m not gonna get Tara back by not trusting her. I have to give her time and let her think what she thinks. And hope that she thinks I’m, you know, still datable.”

“Oh, you’re seriously datable,” Buffy cut in, hearing her cue. Of course, she was fairly out of practice at this stuff, so it didn’t quite come out right. Willow gave her an odd look. “Not that _I_ would date you,” she explained, which then seemed kind of insulting, so she appended, “But if I were Tara – or, or not me, in the sense that I was, uh…”

“Thanks,” Willow accepted, still not looking quite convinced. “And you too, you know,” she offered, a jokey smile slowly growing on her face. “if I were a Billy Idol man-vampire I’d totally be knocking on your door for some smoochies.”

The idea made Buffy laugh for a moment, because, hey, it was nice to hear it – but then her mind wandered the inevitable path back to the reasons behind the current lack of man-vampires at her door. “Ohh…” she groaned, dropping her spoon in her bowl so she could drop her head into her hand. “Why is this all so _hard_?” She didn’t care what Dawn said. It wasn’t fair that Spike was who he was, when he could so easily be ninety-nine per cent the same and yet not that one per cent that made him the most infuriating, impossible, not-datable evil guy he was. It didn’t make her a bad person to want that, did it?

She’d closed her eyes, but when she opened them again Willow was biting her lip, like she didn’t really want to say what she was thinking. All the same, Buffy waited, willing to take anything.

Eventually, Willow slumped, glancing away. “I don’t know if this even works with your situation…” She sighed, and then seemed to decide to go with it. “When I first,” she began, then changed tack, frustrated frown on her face. “When Tara and I started hanging out and I didn’t even know if she was… I used to imagine, you know, what it would be like, how we could end up, maybe, if she were, like – a guy.” A flash of fear crossed her face then, as if Buffy were about to revoke her rights to gayhood or something. Of course, Buffy herself had no intention of doing that at all, or really any idea how to react, so she kept listening instead – a little wide-eyed, possibly. “A tall, blond, gentle New Age Viking-type guy,” Willow assured, quickly, “who was basically Tara-like in every way, and had her voice and her nose and pretty much all her woman parts when I used to, uh –”

Coughing, Willow abruptly cut herself off, blushing bright red as she reached for her glass.

“– think about her?” she then tried, before taking a gulp of juice, which only made Buffy realise what she actually meant.

Blushing herself, Buffy reflexively started checking her shoulder brace, checking it wasn’t twisted by her neck, just so she had something to do.

Thankfully, a couple of seconds were enough that they could move on from the awkwardness and Willow continued, “But, I mean, obviously I was fooling myself.” If not by much, Buffy guessed. “I think with hormones and stuff,” Willow explained, like she was getting to her point now, “I think our bodies or our hearts or whatever, they’re kind of take-it-or-leave-it about people, and you can either go with that or not. I’m not sure you could change one aspect of someone and, you know, expect them to make you feel the same way.”

“Oh,” Buffy realised, now that Willow was finishing with a sympathetic smile. Well, she thought, maybe that made sense. It was certainly true that when she – _thought_ about Spike he was pretty much the same as in real life, complete with the teasing and the pouting when he didn’t get his way.

The only problem was the other thing Buffy could see on Willow’s face, however, and what made her ask, glumly, “But you think I should leave it, don’t you?”

“That’s not for me to decide,” Willow replied, holding up her hands. Which plainly said, _yes_. “But, I mean,” she continued nonetheless, “what I’m saying is… You’re probably right about Dawnie,” she concluded, finding the words, “but _she_ probably can’t choose about wanting him for a friend any more than you can choose about wanting to date him, or doing whatever you guys do.” _‘Filthy bondage sex’_ was what she what she was implying, of course, but Buffy’s mind immediately supplied _‘cosy afterglow snuggles’_ , because it was a cruel, cruel beast that wanted to threaten her with the idea she’d never feel that warm and content again.

Buffy refused to accept that. Even if it meant flying in the face of everything that resembled logic. She was a supernatural magic woman-creature; it was her prerogative. “I don’t know,” she said, shaking her head like that would dissuade Willow from her conviction. “I still figure that if he had a soul or was human or whatever, things would be better.” _And I wouldn’t have slept alone last night._

Apparently realising that she wasn’t going to get any further, and unwilling to try, Willow rose from her stool with a shrug. “Well, if you wanna think that, then OK.” She took Buffy’s breakfast things with her own and turned away to the sink, turning on the tap with a glance over her shoulder. “Although,” she said, smirking, “now, I don’t wanna call limited data points a pattern or anything, but I’m not sure you’ve got a lot of evidence to back that up.”

“Hey!” Buffy said, even though she had a feeling she’d lost this argument and it was over. “I have way amount of evidence.”

“I guess,” Willow conceded, adding soap to the water. “The difference was pretty noticeable with Angel…”

Now, why did that sound like a joke? Buffy thought. It wasn’t meant to sound like a joke, even if things had been simpler then. Hellish, sure, but simple. She wasn’t meant to be smiling.

“Did you call him, by the way?” Willow free-associated, looking over her shoulder again. “Weren’t you gonna call him about LA?”

And then Buffy groaned, because she had meant to, hadn’t she? Who even knew what was happening in LA right now, after everything? She couldn’t not call ahead, even if she _had_ spent the previous night stewing in her own chocolated misery rather than sorting her life out. Even if this meant talking to Angel _on the phone_ , which had a habit of being nothing more than awkward.

Goddamn Willow and her organised self. “I’d best go do that, huh?” Buffy asked, hoping for the negative.

She didn’t get it, just gleeful bowl-sloshing. “Yuh-huh.”

* * *

There wasn’t any answer at the Hyperion, which was easily an indication that something was wrong, but Buffy chose to ignore it for the moment, attributing it instead to the first piece of luck she’d had in twenty-four hours. She’d tried to call; there was no one there. That meant that if she called tonight or tomorrow morning or even not at all, well, that was understandable. It was a hotel, anyway, what legitimate problem could there be with her asking for a room to stay in if she ended up staying late in town? Besides, it wasn’t like Angel wanted to talk to her about beds and sleeping over any more than she wanted to skirt near flirting dialogue with him. So that was fine.

The problem was, that didn’t leave her with much else to do, so she’d decided to head into the police station with a sullen Dawn on her way to the mall. Because Dawn’s mood hadn’t quite swung back the way Buffy had hoped, that meant a very silent, lonely walk, which in turn made Buffy feel lonely, naturally.

She’d never really got the idea of people staying together ‘for the kids’, but if this was how it could be, then she could almost begin to see the point. By the time their dad had left, Buffy had heard enough arguments, snippets of accusations and general defensiveness that without really thinking about it her loyalties had fallen down on her Mom’s side, and then, even with the Hellmouth, home had been a better place in Sunnydale with their dad-free house. Yet, at the same time, here she was as Dawn’s guardian, and she was getting the silent treatment for badmouthing her sister’s wannabe-maybe-actually-other guardian and depriving her of no more than one morning’s scandalous, cheeky glimpse of him at the breakfast table.

In no way ever could Buffy allow herself to accept Spike into her life – or get back with him if they’d actually split up, which she didn’t think they had done – just to make Dawn happy. All the same, it exhausted her to think how long Dawn could keep this up. As the bad and lazy and horny part of her brain kept reminding her, it probably wouldn’t be so bad, in the end. It would be easier than this.

“OK, so,” Buffy tried as they came up to the police station, “I’ll see you tonight?”

At least Dawn stopped, Buffy thought. She didn’t look up and had crossed her arms, but she’d stopped to say goodbye. If only with, “Sure.”

“Great,” Buffy confirmed, a little too enthusiastically. Of course silence hung after that.

Just as she was turning to go up the step, however, Dawn threw one last question her way. “Do you miss him?” she demanded.

Buffy turned around, moving out of the way of someone else trying to get inside the building. “Dawn…” she began, not even sure how to answer. “It hasn’t even been a day – and we haven’t even… We didn’t…” Maybe she should have worked out better for herself whether they’d broken up or not. God, what the hell was Spike probably thinking? Drama queens weren’t made to be left alone…

“So what?” Obviously, Dawn was looking up now, staring her down. “Do you care what he’s thinking?” she hissed, about two seconds too slow. “What he’s feeling? If you said any of that stuff to his _face_ … You have no idea how much he’ll be hurting right now.” At her lack of immediate response, and pretty unfairly, Buffy thought, Dawn was throwing up her hands and walking away. “Whatever,” she muttered, disappearing into the throng of shoppers.

Watching her go, Buffy’s chest ached. Not just because of the bullet wound, but because she realised then Dawn thought she felt nothing. Absolutely zero. It was…

Willow hadn’t asked either, had she? Whether she was hurt or even what had happened. Last night she’d come home and pretty much let them infer what they liked from her bad mood. Never mind that all she’d shown them was anger.

It was meant to be obvious, wasn’t it, when a person felt the dull empty lack of someone else? The hunger for them? There seemed no reason to say it out loud, Buffy thought, because this was her own fault, and it wasn’t important compared to the reasons why she’d severed their immediate connection in the first place. She didn’t want to think about it, not really, because that would leave her where she’d been last night, hollow and directionless and full of dreams. But it hurt. Not knowing if he’d be around… Of course she missed him.

Not that that mattered; she had her life to get on with. She couldn’t think about it. Dawn and Willow would have to imagine what they liked.

Straightening her jacket, then, Buffy turned, took a deep breath, and went into work.

_One step at a time._

Of course, the moment she reached the desk, walked past the sketchy characters in gungy clothes, couples looking shellshocked, her mind went completely blank. What was she supposed to say? Would Kate even have mentioned she was coming? It was still a little early.

Potential opening lines ran through her mind:

_Hello. Could I please be put through to Detective…?_

_Hi! Kate’s expecting…_

_Hey; I think I work here…?_

_Uh…_

In the end she went with what she had. “Hi!” she said, trying to sound employable. "Um, my name’s Buffy Summers…?”

Immediately the desk officer smiled, like he'd been chosen for his people skills. “Oh, Kate’s new recruit!” he said, because he apparently had never worked on a case where they'd wanted her for arrest. “Welcome to SDPD; I’ll show you through.”

 _Huh._ And so it turned out that getting into the back corridors of the Sunnydale police station was a lot easier than Buffy had anticipated. She supposed it had something to do with being a quite an easy-going town as far as human crime was concerned - which it was, really. If you looked the right species and came in from sunlight, you were probably OK as far as the cops were concerned.

Not for the first time, Buffy wondered how in-the-know they actually all were about the demon world. Maybe it was more than chance that had made them find Kate.

The woman herself was in her office, which had big windows partially obscured by Venetian blinds and a wooden door with a pane of frosted glass. It was kind of PI-like and very retro – but then that was how they did things in Sunny-D. Letting the desk officer go with a grateful smile, Buffy knocked, then only had to wait a second to be told, “It’s open!” by one authoritative cop-voice.

Tentatively, Buffy let herself in, making sure Kate had seen her before she made her way across the threshold. “Hey, Kate,” she began. “Sorry I’m early…”

“Oh, Buffy!" Kate greeted. Looking pleased to see her, she added quickly, "No - no problem.” Then she stood up, a little awkwardly, but gesturing nonetheless to the end of her long desk, where a foot and a half of space was noticeably cleared of papers and in-trays and computer and coffee cup and the picture of some old guy and, a little oddly, a big pink crystal. “I cleared you a space,” she said, unnecessarily. “Take a seat.”

There at the end of the desk, aimed towards the empty space, was indeed a ratty-looking office chair, upholstered in dishwater-brown to go with the grey-beige theme of the room. After the Doublemeat, Buffy found it almost calming. “Thanks,” she said.

“It was only so you missed the morning rush,” Kate explained, sitting back down herself and rolling up her sweater sleeves. She had an expression like she didn’t quite know what to do now that Buffy was here. “Asking you in at lunchtime, I mean.” The computer monitor next to her had fish swimming around black as a screensaver. “There’s always a lot of calls in the morning.”

That sounded – that sounded almost as if Kate wanted to give her full day hours. “No problem,” Buffy said, smiling as she rested her arm on her own little desk space. She should really broach the question of hours at some point, shouldn’t she?

“And we should be able to get you your own desk,” Kate continued, waving now towards the mostly empty half of the room. “If you wanna stick around.”

“Sure,” Buffy replied agreeably, a little surprised. Her own desk?

Kate was still breathing the exaggerated breaths of someone not sure what they were saying. “Um, and we should sign you on with payroll. You’re under my budget, but there’s a system where the money goes through, for taxes and everything.

There was no way Buffy was going to remember all this if they kept going. “Right,” she said nonetheless.

Kate seemed to realise then that she was covering far too many bases at once. Slumping into her chair, she reached for her coffee cup. “Anyway, how _are_ you?” she asked more seriously, rubbing the corner of one eye with a finger tip. “After everything yesterday – are you all right?”

The woman didn’t sound overwhelmingly sympathetic, which was probably to do with Spike being a vampire, but she did at least sound interested. It made Buffy warm to her. “I think so,” she said, though it wasn’t the truth. “We had…” Her eyes darted to the taupe carpet, remembering again. Maybe there was an actual reason why she didn’t want people asking if she was all right. “There was a big argument,” Buffy finished, taking a breath, “but I’m taking some space, so.”

“OK,” Kate accepted, sipping coffee. She was probably more than able to figure out or detect or whatever that Buffy wasn’t telling the truth. Bully for her. “Well, I asked around,” she added, like she was trying to say something supportive. “Spike’s story seems to hold up. No one’s seen that Tork guy in days; he probably hightailed it to LA the moment the eggs were out of his hands.”

“Oh,” Buffy replied, not really remembering that part of the events. It didn’t really change anything as far as she was concerned. Even if it likely mattered here. “What does that mean for us?”

“Well,” Kate said, turning to the foremost papers on her desk. In profile, with her jaunty blonde ponytail, it looked like she was back in her comfort zone. It was nice someone could be. “It mostly depends on if LA takes it. He’s out of our jurisdiction and it’s kinda hard to tell if he came _out_ of LA to do the trade or if things have been in Sunnydale this whole time.” One glance to check Buffy was following; she was, just about. “They aren’t gonna _want_ to take it, because then they’ll have to talk in doublespeak around their own investigation – but they’re way better equipped to deal with it than us.”

“Didn’t you say something, though, yesterday?” Buffy suggested, encouraged when Kate looked inquisitively her way. “About the FBI, or something? That they might help out?”

“If they’ve been put on it,” Kate agreed, nodding over her cup lid. It made Buffy feel like she should have a coffee of her own. “You never know until they come knocking at your door – _if_ they even tell you.” Then she shrugged. “It might not even be them; could be some other unit.”

“Mmm,” Buffy agreed, thinking about the Initiative. But they didn’t exist anymore. Did they?

“Anyway,” Kate dismissed, throwing what now seemed to be an empty coffee cup in the trash can by her filing cabinets, before she picked up a hefty pile of manila folders that was sitting by her chair. “Oof…” It found a place among everything else on the on the faux-walnut desk. “We’ve got the boring stuff to do today.”

“Oh?” Buffy asked, mostly thinking that whatever that pile of stuff was, it was remarkably dissimilar from a Doublemeat Medley. Also, she was still sitting down. Surely that was the opposite of boring?

“Unsolved cases,” Kate explained, barely suppressing a groan. “I’ve been through the archives for everything in the last year. The common denominator seems to be slime.”

Buffy eyed the paperwork. It looked like a lot of reading, but maybe not quite so much as one of Giles’ old research parties. “You want me to look for anything demonic?” she asked.

At that, Kate raised her eyebrow. Of course – it was all gonna be demonic. “We need to figure out if it’s connected. But if you want to solve anything else along the way, go ahead.” She passed over the first few inches of the foot-high stack.

With no small amount of apprehension, Buffy took the paper in her hands.

* * *

Making her way through the files was more difficult than Buffy might have anticipated. The ‘unsolved’ descriptor really meant _unsolved_ , with most of the police reportage completely clueless. Factual reports and photographs accompanied interview notes, but it was clear with some stuff that the investigation couldn’t tell whether it was connected or not. In a few cases, it seemed like evidence from several incidents had been thrown together just so it could be stored in one file instead of three.

In complete contrast to the labelled buttons of the DMP, Buffy felt like she was looking at words that meant something. She could almost feel her brain moving, the cogs turning around. She wasn’t overly sure she liked the sensation, but it was like being back in college – only with a subject she actually knew about.

“What d’you think of this one?” Kate asked her absently, holding a file over the desk. They’d been working for a couple of hours now, mostly in comfortable silence once they’d got started. It turned out that neither of them were big talkers, or else that they didn’t have much to say, but Buffy hoped that would be a good thing to have in colleagues. They didn’t need to be major, major friends, did they?

Perusing the file, Buffy certainly felt business-like. “A raid on a pet store?”

“To feed the thing that laid those eggs,” Kate suggested, not even bringing up Spike a little bit. That was nice of her. “Smash and grab in the middle of the night; no alarm system – yet they only took the kittens. Could be a selective diet.”

The problem with not talking, however, was that Buffy’s mind wandered. A lot. More than enough to mean she had plenty of thoughts about kittens and poker and one vampire who played it, recently thought and just waiting for this impetus to hurl themselves towards the front of her mind, make her heart hurt again. “Could be,” she forced herself to say anyway, looking down but not quite able to focus on the text. “Or it could be gambling debts.”

“Gambling debts?” Kate asked with a laugh, looking up.

Buffy met her glance morosely. “I’m not making it up.” _Why couldn’t you have pulled a stupid scheme like this one?_ OK; she was getting nostalgic for Sharkey and George the loan shark. It was really time to get over herself. “It’s kitten poker,” she explained to Kate with a sigh, banishing her thoughts. “Drives people to desperation.”

She probably wouldn’t have been able to forgive Spike for stealing kittens either, would she? It wasn’t what Buffy was supposed to be thinking, but the thought popped into her head all the same. Was kitten theft better or worse than harbouring demon eggs for black market demon guys? And - ugh, the crime wasn't even what she was mad at him about, but it made it so difficult to think through what she actually thought. She _wasn't_ supposed to trust him when he harboured demon eggs, was she? That was a deal-breaker right there, no matter what he thought about her ability to trust him generally.

Just then as she was thinking this, however, because apparently things weren't bad enough, there was a knock at the door. Kate cursorily called, “Come in!” and Buffy’s heart took a completely embarrassing leap when she saw it was a figure dressed in black.

It sank again when she heard the first, wholesome word: “Hi!”

The guy _was_ wearing black, but it was body armour, not leather – and above all else he was tall. Way too tall. And he had a long, ragged scar down the side of his face. How was she meant to have expected this, again?

“My name’s…” the man continued –

– before Buffy cut him off, unable to believe her eyes. “ _Riley?_ ”


	5. How Do You Get to Say I'm the One who's Stinky?

This had to be the most unfair thing that had happened to her recently. Maybe that didn’t make rational sense, but at least with a lot of the other stuff she maybe could have seen it coming. The idea that Riley would come back now, on the other hand, was nothing more than plain random and unfair. There was bound to be some important reason why he was here, but she was right in the middle of starting her new job – and wallowing about Spike. She was having quality wallow time.

“Buffy!” Riley didn’t seem to have gotten that memo. He was turning his serious face on her. “Just the girl I was looking for." Well, at least that cleared that up. "I went by your house, but your mom wasn’t home; I guess you left Willow with Dawn? She said you’d be here.”

OK, so it had been a long time since she’d met someone who didn’t know about her mom. It was like a splash of water on her face, like going back in time. “What do you want?” she asked, short-temperedly. She’d have to tell him, of course – get him straight before he talked to Dawn. And that was yet another thing she really didn’t want to deal with right now.

“I…” Riley seemed to take in her tone, but he mostly looked confused as he glanced around the room, over to Kate. “Is everything OK? Did something happen?”

Confused herself now, Buffy asked, “Huh?” Then she figured out what was going on. He thought she’d come to the police station to report an incident, which was almost funny. “Oh – no,” she informed him, gesturing to her part of the desk. “I work here.”

That seemed to startle him. “You’re a cop now?” He made her face like that was beneath her or something, but that only brought some rustles from behind her, as if Kate was bristling in her chair.

Buffy tried to smile, mostly glad she wasn’t wearing the cow hat. “Looks like.”

“I need your help.” After a quick shake of his head, Riley was immediately back on topic. “There’s trouble – and I need the best.”

_Of all the presumptuous…_

Buffy was about to tell him how completely inconvenient and not happening that was, but Kate happened to take that moment to interrupt. “Oh,” she seemed to realise something, leaning back in her chair when Buffy turned around. “You’re an _ex_.”

That made Buffy laugh for a moment, because she was clearly a bad person. “Kate, meet Riley,” she said, deciding it was time to explain. “He’s hunts demons in a secret military organisation.”

On that remark, Riley looked annoyed - so at least he knew how that felt. “It gets less secret every day I spend in this town,” he grumbled impatiently. “Buffy,” he continued then, “we don’t have a lot of time.”

It didn’t sound like she was going to get out of this, so Buffy gave into the inevitable. First she looked to Kate, hoping she could get permission to make up her time somewhere else – because that had been the unwritten agreement, hadn’t it? She would be OK to leave for slayer emergencies? She was already kicking her bag from under the desk into a position where it could be picked up.

For the moment, however, Kate was still looking at Riley Finn. “This organisation,” she said, not sounding so impressed by the idea. “It’s paying, right? Because I expect to be compensated for losing my employee. Maybe thirty per cent equivalent of what you’re giving her?”

 _Huh?_ Getting money for this hadn’t even crossed Buffy’s mind – and going by Riley’s face it hadn’t crossed his either. She’d told Kate, or thought it at least, that she couldn’t ask for money for slaying jobs, so why was it even coming up?

But then, Buffy supposed, this wasn’t really a slaying job, since it sounded like Riley was going after whatever it was anyway. This was about her helping out with whatever Riley’s not-the-Initiative business was – and _he_ was probably getting paid for it, wasn’t he?

Faced with the suggestion, at least, it looked like Riley felt like he couldn’t really back down, and Buffy felt a rush of gratitude towards Kate. “Sure,” he said carefully, like he was doing the arithmetic in his head – or reminding himself to file the report. “We can do that.”

Kate herself was now pulling her jacket on from where it rested on the back of her chair. “First rule of government agencies,” she told Buffy as an aside, standing up. “They always expect you to do stuff for free. Don’t let ‘em.”

“Are you coming too?” Buffy asked, feeling a little out of her depth, even with the prospect of what would hopefully be easy killing up ahead.

“Why not?” Kate replied, throwing an oddly familiar smile in Riley’s direction. He sighed and turned back out of the doorway. “I’m bored – and it could be connected.” On their way out, she dropped her voice for Buffy’s benefit and added, “Second rule. Don’t let them take over your town.”

* * *

The ride in Riley’s van was awkward. The front seat had enough room for three, but it was clearly only intended for two, and on top of that Riley tried to get them both to change into the short-woman versions of the stealth gear he had on. Kate declined outright, but Buffy felt she had to explain the fractured clavicle situation, which meant she had to explain how she'd been shot, which somehow led to explaining about her mother and her money issues. No one said much of anything after that. Buffy didn’t even mention that she’d died too.

Eventually they pulled over in a part of town where she didn’t usually go, and what they found was something of a surprise. Obviously Sunnydale needed a reservoir of water somewhere, but who knew they had their very own dam? Not her, that was for sure. Still, she kept her mouth shut as she climbed out of the car and waited for Riley to stop focusing on his blinky, bleepy gizmo.

“Tracking device says we’re right on top of it,” he told them as he tucked the thing back into his belt, before heading over to the edge. “Must’ve gone down?”

“And what is this thing, again?” Buffy asked, wondering if he had a tool to tell him that or whether he had to just guess like everybody else.

Riley looked at her askance, like he didn’t really expect her to care. “Suvolte demon,” he explained anyway. “It’s come up from Central America to breed; we’ve been tracking it for days. I’m just glad it’s in a secluded area, else the casualty count…”

“Well, how d’you plan on getting down there, then?” Kate asked, apparently of the opinion that urgent situations meant that talking should be kept to a minimum. Right now, Buffy appreciated it. “Unless you’ve got some agency regulation jetpacks in your van back there…”

Just as Buffy was suppressing a giggle, Riley made a big show of detaching something from his Inspector Gadget toolbelt – it turned out to be some sort of hook, running out on a thick wire; he attached it to the railing. “This rappelling line’s only made for one person, but two of us without gear should amount to the same thing.” Then he frowned, looking between them. “I should have a spare in the trunk, maybe, with a harness…?”

It looked like Buffy was meant to be going down with Riley, then. Even though, when she looked over the edge, the however-many-feet drop looked a lot less like piggyback abseiling fun and a lot more like a surefire route to watery death. “Um, could I have a harness too?” she asked. As much as she mostly trusted Riley not to drop her… “I spent enough time in the hospital last week that I’m trying to cut back on near-death experiences.”

“Buffy,” Riley said, looking frustrated, still attached to the railing. “We really need to get down there.”

“Well, that’s easy for you to say!” Buffy told him, while Kate was opening up the van and rooting around. Thankfully it was still light enough that Riley would be able to make out her incredulity. “But fine.” He’d be able to see clearly that she was agreeing under duress, and only because she knew her right arm could take her whole body weight if it needed to. “Just don’t expect me to let go, even if I’m making your Kevlar chafe.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” he replied with a smile, sounding like James Bond for the first time that afternoon. It made her allow him a small smile in return.

When Kate managed to find something that looked like it would almost allow her a safe descent by their side, they made their clumsy way down the dam. For pretty much all the journey, Buffy kept her eyes on the fire escape ladder they were running past and tried to ignore the feeling of being held, not even piggyback but almost front-to-front. The drop was too far that the ladder wouldn’t have worked – they’d still be near the top right now, even with the extra time arguing at the top of the ledge. Even so, Buffy wished things didn’t have to be so awkward. Her body still remembered how to fit against this one, and she was filled with a sort of flirtatious nostalgia, at the same time as her thin arm felt overstretched around so broad a chest and shoulders.

Mostly it felt like someone was hugging her, and the sadness that was sitting right behind her heart wanted nothing more than to let itself out, have her sink fully into the embrace and be comforted. But that couldn’t happen, because (a) it was Riley and (b) it was _Riley_. He’d walked away from the opportunities of Buffy hugs and he wouldn’t think she deserved them anyway, not for the reason she wanted them.

All in all, she was more than ready to leap into battle when they reached the bottom of the buttresses. Conveniently enough, the Suvolte demon was _huge_ – and horrendously ugly, though that was less important.

Buffy got to work as soon as she could. Certainly the demon could hold its own as far as bulk was concerned, confused rather than hurt by some of her better kicks - which was a perversely satisfying thing to see. On the other hand, and far less satisfying, it was seriously slow on the uptake. A few basic one-handed cartwheels were more than enough to distract it, make it lumber around in the wrong direction and give her way too many openings.

Eventually the idea did appear to penetrate its ugly head that she wasn't the easiest target available, so it turned instead on Riley and Kate, who was having trouble detaching her carabiner. Unworried, Buffy rushed over to help, but then, before she could get there, another figure dropped out of the sky: a soldier-woman in the black Kevlar outfit Riley had wanted her and Kate to try on. She stabbed the demon with the long knife she had in her hand and then turned on the pair of them. “Hey,” she said, like the wholesome GI Josephine she clearly was. “What’re you doing with my husband?”

Buffy almost didn’t land the kick she was making – but thankfully the Suvolte was encouraged away anyway. _Husband?_ she thought, stopping still.

“Uh…” was all Kate said, finally freeing herself from the line and the harness. “Rappelling?”

“I’m just kidding, Buffy,” the woman said, apparently thinking that cool, competent, jacketed Kate was Riley’s ex. “I’m Sam.”

“That’s nice,” Kate replied, apparently even less certain why the woman was talking to her. “I’m Kate.”

“ _I’m_ Buffy,” Buffy herself interrupted, just as Riley opened his mouth. Of course Sam then turned around, revealing herself to be a tall, elegant Amazon woman with glossy-really-not-even-a-little-greasy chestnut brown hair in a cute little ponytail.

“Oh, wow,” she said, “I’m sorry.” Buffy felt mostly short. Also, injured. “I’ve heard so much about you; I didn’t realise – ” Before she could finish what would undoubtedly be a really unflattering sentence, however, Sam was pointing her knife at the sudden rise in growling over Buffy’s shoulder. “Hang on; I got this.” And then she was being all nimble and violent, in a way that Buffy thought was deeply unfair.

Trudging towards Riley and Kate again, Buffy took her eyes off Xena the Warrior Princess and decided it was the moment to be catty. Catty, but not in any way jealous. “So,” she asked the guy who, as she vaguely recalled, had pretty much said that he loved her with everything he had and she was the one who didn’t care enough. “Long engagement?”

The contented smile, however, didn’t really fade from Riley’s face. “Didn’t need to be,” he said not looking away from his wife. “I guess it’s true that sometimes you just know.”

Kate seemed to be ducking out of this conversation, but Buffy still wished she could give her something to say, turned to her. _A little help here?_

She got a raised eyebrow and a fake smile, like the other woman wanted nothing to do with schmalz. _Don't look at me; you're on your own._

That was just great. What was she supposed to do with happiness, again? “Oh, well...” Buffy tried. She could be the bigger person, couldn’t she? That was always an option. As long as she made sure not to think about all the doomed romances she’d been involved in by comparison, she’d be fine. “I guess I’m happy for…”

Riley wasn’t even listening. The moment the Suvolte got something that seemed vaguely like the upper hand he was off in a flash. And then he started actually making flashes with a Taser-type weapon pulled from his side, jabbing it into the demon’s head.

“He’s keen, isn’t he?” Kate commented as they watched.

Buffy agreed, “Yup.” As far as she could tell, though, it seemed like the Initiative-style weapon was as useless as they’d always been, making the demon drowsy but not actually doing any damage. It would have been fine if a single cowtipping fall didn’t have the likely eventuality of crushing its assailant’s bones – and if it weren’t lumbering their way.

“Hey!” she shouted, deciding it was time to fray things up herself. There had to be a way of ending this. Looking around, it didn’t seem like there was much for her to work with, but – _aha!_ One metal pipe, sticking out of the dam, with a pointy spout-end and everything just to make her day. “Guys, hey!” she shouted again, turning the demon towards her, scissor-kicking it to touch. Now she had Riley and Sam’s attention too. She really was the bigger person. This was going to prove it. “No hard feelings, OK?” This could be their wedding gift, she decided, dropping another kick – if only because it was nice and free.

With a jump that sent her feet running over the Suvolte’s back and up to its neck, Buffy leapt off to one side, pushing the demon’s head towards the pipe. It stumbled, then fell like a redwood, barely even crying out before a squelchy sound squelched grossly, but satisfyingly, through the air. As she regained her feet, Buffy realised with a little further satisfaction that her aim had been right on: the demon was skewered through the throat, right into the spinal column. It was totally dead; job well done.

Or so you would think, if you weren’t looking at the Finns’ faces. “You killed it,” Riley said, not looking impressed.

Nudging the dead demon with her toe, just in case, Buffy confirmed, “Yuh-huh.” It hadn’t even been that difficult, in the end. Which just went to show there were some things she was good –

“I can’t believe you did that!” Riley was now shouting, not gratefully. Startled, Buffy looked up, not sure what he meant. “We needed –”

“Agent Finn,” Sam interrupted, apparently in Buffy’s defence, given the way Riley reacted. “Did you engage the Slayer without briefing her on our objectives?” Raising the knife again, Sam didn’t wait for an answer before crossing the concrete and kneeling by the demon’s side. Behind her, Kate looked confused and Riley made a sheepish, defensive shrug, which made Buffy exceptionally grateful she hadn’t missed something in the van. “We’ll have to get what information we can,” Sam continued, after a long-suffering sigh. When Buffy turned around she could see that the woman was trying to wedge her shoulder under the demon’s side, apparently wanting it turned over.

“I told her we were trying to track it before it could breed,” Riley complained, also coming over to help his wife.

 _Her has a name, by the way._ “Here,” Buffy said to Sam before Riley could reach down, “let me help you with that.” And then, with one slayerly right hand levering on the demon’s grimacing face, she shoved it up off the pipe and over onto its back. She could be helpful, she really could. They could be grateful any time soon.

Catching Buffy’s expression of annoyance, Sam seemed to decide on keeping quiet and returned to her knifing. In one broad, swift stroke the Suvolte got it’s very own Y-incision, or indeed I-incision, as Buffy could accept was more accurate. Nothing came out other than what might be expected from demon guts, but Sam still said, “Crap,” her shoulders slumping.

“Damn,” Riley agreed.

Buffy was still annoyed, not least because she was still out of the loop, but Kate filled in. “What is it?” she asked

“This was the breeding mother,” Sam explained to the pair of them, gesturing at the corpse with her knife.

“Came here to spawn,” Riley finished, looking forlorn. “We wanted to track it to its nest, but I guess we’re too late.”

And then Buffy’s annoyance vanished; her stomach dropped away. _Nest?_

Green, slimy, ugly... It wasn't hard to recall a nest of eggs that looked like they could have come from this thing. A clutch of eggs, in fact, as she had facetiously been told.

She looked over to Kate just as Kate looked over to her. Crap, she thought, seeing the same recognition on the other woman's face. Crapping crap. Of course the Suvolte would be connected to everything else, and in the way Buffy least wanted it to be. That was how her life worked: every badness had to be raised to the power of suck before she was able to move past it. _What the hell have you gotten yourself into, Spike?_ She could so easily kill him. It would make everything worse and more painful, but she could do it.

At least it was clear now that Spike hadn't _known_ what he was getting into. There was absolutely no way that he would knowingly store this things eggs in his _bedroom_ , sleep next to them and consider himself ready to accept her as a visitor. He hadn't been lying, which was vindicating. He was also, clearly, an idiot who didn't read the fine print and didn't even make sure to get a contract where the fine print was specified, but, hey, all of them were fallible one way or another.

Of course, she could still kill him for endangering himself and he'd still implied she was a bitch who didn't care about him at all, but those were private issues; there was no longer the need to feel guilty on his behalf. Not so much. His worst fault was recklessness, and that was forgivable, so now all she had to get over was hurt. If she was going to get over this. She hadn't decided about that yet.

There was also the minor issue of whether she would forgive him for making her explain this to Riley - but then, maybe… Did she have to tell him and Sam? There was no rush, since she knew the eggs weren’t in clueful evil hands for the moment. She and Kate could keep this between them – and Kate was even nodding, once, as if she agreed.

Yes, she remembered. _Don’t let them take over your town_

Buffy would keep control of this. Work out what to do. Reveal things in her own time.

When exactly that would be, she didn’t know, but thankfully Sam was talking. “We need to regroup,” she said, rising off her knees. Her expression was still on mission and Buffy tried to match it. “I hate to ask, Buffy, but - have you got a safehouse?”

“Uh…” Buffy blinked. Now she was lost again. “I’ve got a house?” she offered, still not entirely sure how she was going to string this out. “I can probably get Xander to bring pizza?” Yeah, pizza. That distracted people.

And it looked like Riley could even be charmed by her military ignorance, just like in the old days. “Is that safe?” He was quipping, even.

Good thing she hadn’t lost that ability. “Depends what mood Anya’s in.”

* * *

Xander did indeed bring pizza. Panic-ordering seemed to have somewhat influenced his decision, however, given the four extra large boxes spread across the dining table when Buffy got home. On top of the pizza, there were all the left over canapés Willow had made for Buffy’s birthday party, more than they’d even been able to get started on during that evening and mostly rejected in favour of vending machine and cafeteria food during Buffy’s ensuing hospitalisation.

The chips were starting to go stale now, but that just meant that Dawn had taken the excuse to experiment with the leftover dips, the conceptual theory of nachos and their microwave. Some of the experiments turned out OK. Buffy was keeping an eye on the kitchen in case it blew up, which wasn’t the same as hiding at all.

“So, right,” Kate came in and asked as combination No. 4 wound down its last couple of minutes, “why aren’t we telling Mr. and Mrs. American Dream about the eggs?” She didn’t sound overly concerned, but seemed interested nonetheless, even as she opened up the refrigerator and added, “Say, d’you mind if I get a beer?”

“Knock yourself out,” Buffy replied to that one first, not sure how they were going to get through Willow’s party supplies otherwise. Most of them were on the table, but the sodas probably seemed childish to Kate… As for the other question, she didn’t know what to say, just concentrated on Dawn’s rotating concoction as though it might be able to give her answers. (Cajun Fiesta potato chips plus taramasalata and some purloined pepperoni from the pizza: Buffy wasn’t holding out much hope for edibility, but variety was good, right? She lived for variety. And, as a guardian, she was meant to encourage creativity, didn’t Oprah say? Or maybe that was for three year olds…) “The thing is…” she tried as Kate opened her beer bottle, but then she gave up. “The thing is the thing.” She sighed.

“Uh huh,” Kate replied, taking a sip of her drink. It kind of made Buffy want one. She was twenty-one now; was she allowed to do that? Drink in her own home for no particular reason? It seemed kind of like what they always warned you was the route towards alcoholism, but maybe it was these sort of evenings beer was designed for. “Look,” Kate continued, apparently off Buffy’s worried expression. “It’s not hard to deduce that Spike and this Riley guy don’t get along. Is that all it is?”

Buffy snorted, shaking her head. “Spike was around when I was with Riley,” she explained. And that time felt like what it literally was: another lifetime. “I didn’t know he was, uh, interested –” Although, there had been clues, hadn’t there? Like the time he’d tried to kiss her in the alleyway. And when he’d been staking out her house… “– but I guess Riley might have had a clue.” She judged Spike on the present, not the past. On the _present_. “They really hated each other,” she tried to make Kate understand, looking up so the other woman could see she was serious. “And not like in a Tom-and-Jerry, Sideshow Bob-Bart Simpson we-complete-each-other kind of way. Not like – ” _Spike and me._

_Nope. Not saying that._

“If Riley had a good enough excuse,” Buffy finished, regaining her thread, “he’d happily put a stake through Spike’s heart and kill him dead.” At least Kate seemed to be getting it, nodding as she leaned back against the fridge and took in what Buffy was saying. “My line was always that Spike was harmless and that he didn’t deserve to die for being annoying.” Even though he could be really, really irritating, had always had that ability. Maybe part of her had known how much fun it could be to shut him up? Certainly it was true that "Riley and me never saw eye-to-eye about it." And that created a problem. "I think he figured he didn’t want to piss me off when we were together – but now…” Buffy shrugged, really not sure of the answer there.

Kate seemed to have enough to work with all the same. “Now you think that if Riley knew about _Spike_ –”

“What about Spike?” And suddenly Dawn was there, munching on a slice of pizza and casting a glance to the not-nachos in the microwave, which were almost done. If you could say that about foodstuffs which weren't meant to exist. “Is he OK?” The ice in Dawn’s stare seemed to have melted a little over the day, but the question was still mulish.

“He’s just fine, Dawn,” Buffy replied, trying not to get annoyed. _Trafficking black market killer eggs, but fine…_

“He’s caught up in all the stuff Riley’s going on about, isn’t he?” Dawn came up with out of pretty much nowhere, depriving her gooey chips of their last few seconds and removing them from the microwave with a dish towel. “I mean, that’s why you’re hiding out here, right?”

“I’m not _hiding_ ,” Buffy began – defensive in response to Dawn's _‘yeah, sure’_ roll of her eyes, but glad to be cut off as Willow came into the kitchen.

She was carrying an empty glass and it looked like she was at the tail end of laughter, a light flush high in her cheeks to match smile on her face. When she realised Buffy was looking at her, that all quickly vanished into a stony mask of disapproval and she deadpanned, pretty convincingly, “Wow, how much of a bitch is Riley’s _wife?_ ”

Shaking her head, there was nothing Buffy could do but laugh. It had been a strange, strange couple of days and there was nothing else she could do, was there? It was either this or go back to the crying jags.

“Hey!” Willow complained about the laughter all the same, taking the orange soda from the collection of half-finished bottles on the breakfast bar and pouring herself a glass. “I’m trying to be petty and supportive here!”

“You got her email address yet?” Dawn asked, apparently able to smirk about this.

Concentrating on her drink, Willow replied without thinking, “You bet I do; she was telling me about…” Then she looked up – and pouted. “I mean, um, I’m gonna sign her up for spam about Viagra?”

“Don’t worry about it, Will,” Buffy told her, laughter settling into a sad sort of acceptance. “I’m cool. Zen, even.” She gestured just how cool she was. “I don’t need to hate, not when they’re so happy. It’s fine.” Maybe it made her sad that she was sad, by comparison, but that was pretty much inevitable. Not to mention that they had bigger problems here.

“But you need of a friend to play the petty hater for you,” Willow finished apologetically, even as Dawn eagerly and Kate more tentatively began to try the new nacho combination. “Oh, Buffy, I’m sorry,” the apology continued; Willow fiddled with her glass. “I’m trying to bring the game face, but they’re so…” Then she shook her head.

The sentence didn't need to be finished. The coolness factor of Mr. and Mrs. Finn was pretty much a given.

Looking down at herself, Buffy knew she would never be able to compete with black ops. They had all that black and their fancy Kevlar; she had an old buttoned shirt, which had never fit properly even when she liked its shade of pale blue, and it spent most of its time broadcasting to the world that she’d never learnt how to iron. There was no _point_ trying to compete, if black ops. was where Riley’s heart lay.

It wasn’t like she even wanted it, after all. Not Riley’s heart.

So, it didn’t really matter about Riley and Sam and their coolness, even if the idea of Riley being so happy did cause a few little green twinges. Her problem was more like – crap ops, if she was going to let her mind segue to that pretty terrible pun, and what the hell she was going to say about them. She couldn’t say nothing, in the end, so it was entirely possible she needed to make a decision about what she was doing with Spike - and, obviously, act on it.

If he was the guy whose heart lay in half-assed, ill-advisable operations, then she certainly had an outfit for that, but she couldn’t base a relationship around her failed wardrobe. She would have to make a choice: accept him as he was or break things off _or_ try and make him change. All that would impact what she said to the Finns now. As it was, she didn’t much like the idea of the first two, but the third was probably the most impossible, if her experience with Riley leaving the military was anything to go by. He’d just ended up straight back in there; Spike and the dumb stuff would probably be no different.

If she accepted Spike as he was, on the other hand, then there was hope of him changing on his own. Or at least, maybe, of him thinking through things a little more. In general, also, there would be Spike, which was a major plus.

Breaking things off didn’t guarantee anything apart from no Spike. And if she hadn’t killed him for being annoying, then she didn’t see why she had to deprive herself of the things she liked about him, when all he’d done was make her angry, rather than actually compromising her morals. Those horrible things he’d said about their relationship, he didn’t always have to believe them - and it had looked like he'd regretted saying them anyway, she let herself remember.

The pro-Spike part of her brain seemed to be winning. Buffy knew she was meant to overrule it on account of horny bias, but she wasn’t entirely sure she had the energy. As it was, even though she knew that all her friends disapproved – or at least that some of them disapproved – no one was making that much of a big deal about her relationship with a vampire. If they didn’t care, then, well, why was she supposed to? Of course, she was still waiting for them to actually turn on her about the whole situation, but at some point she had to get on and do things, didn’t she? Even if she worried.

As for her complete apparent failure to communicate where she and her feelings stood in their relationship, well, maybe she needed to bite the bullet on that. It was likely she could take some time to work on it, since the beauty of crap ops. meant Spike wasn't about to fly away on a helicopter any time soon - he'd be around, hopefully, being crap. She could go for that sort of pace these days.

Satisfied, Buffy surfaced from her thoughts. She heard talking, so immediately she tuned in, worried that she might have missed something. It quickly became apparent, however, that she had not.

“… best so far,” Kate was saying thoughtfully, rubbing Cajun Fiesta dust off her fingers onto her jeans. “Better than the last one.”

“Yeah, the Marshmallow Fluff was a mistake,” Dawn agreed, picking the pepperoni off the chip-cluster in her hand. “But we ate all our dessert options, so…”

“I liked the Fluff!” Willow interjected, scrunching her nose at what she had between her fingers. “The salty-sweet thing worked. This is just… Fishy.”

 _I let myself internal monologue for one minute…_ “I’m gonna go back into the living room,” Buffy announced, fairly certain that she would have to psyche herself up before explaining about Spike and the eggs, but definitely sure she didn’t want to debate fishy nachos right now.

When she left the kitchen, of course, Buffy remembered that it wasn’t only worry about Spike that had made her go there in the first place. Sitting primly on the living room couch were Mr. and Mrs. Finn, while Xander sat in the armchair with Anya a little awkward on his lap. Even as Xander continued to compulsively reach for the plates of nacho-like mess, the four of them made a picture of cheery coupledom – Buffy could almost imagine the dinner parties and games of mixed doubles and the matching sweaters. Maybe she wasn’t jealous about the Riley thing, mostly, but she was pretty jealous of this.

And they were still talking about the eggs.

“Yeah, we were hoping we could cut off supply before they got passed on,” Riley was saying. “But…” He shook his head.

Comforting him, Sam put her hand on his knee. “These things grow up fast,” she explained. “Start killing the moment they’re out, get breeding when they’re maybe two, three months old. All you need to do is drop one in a populated area and – ” She spread her hands wide, simulating mass destruction.

Buffy was grateful for her friends at that moment, because the statement didn’t quite get the reaction Sam seemed to be looking for: Xander munched on, as if waiting for the next part of the story; Anya looked bored, like she’d heard it all before.

Maybe she could cope with this. Taking a deep breath, Buffy entered the conversation. “But we still have time, right?” she asked. “If the mom demon laid them recently, then there’s gotta be some delay before the eggs hatch…”

“Not exactly,” Riley answered, in a way that made Buffy remain standing. “It’s likely the eggs have been frozen,” he continued, but that just made Buffy’s heart sink. “In which case, yeah, we’ve got time to find them if they haven’t been shipped out straight away. But these things incubate at air temperature and can hatch at any time – they need a couple days usually, but they’ve been known to come out in hours.

Oh f… How much more was she gonna have to deal with? “Hours?” she asked, the faces in front of her slipping slightly out of focus.

Newly arrived in the living room, however, Kate managed to ask what she was actually thinking. “You mean they could be hatching right now?”

Again, Buffy looked over, trying to see if the other woman knew what she was panicking about and agreed it was worth panicking. It didn’t really matter this time, though, because the moment Riley said something that sounded vaguely affirmative Buffy was moving whatever.

“I’ve gotta go,” or something like it fell out of her mouth, but then she wasn’t meeting anybody’s eyes, images of demons in one particular populated area completely taking over her mind. Yep, there was definitely no helicopter, but she was still running.


	6. After All, I Wasn't Exactly Hiding.

She didn’t even think about the route to Restfield from her house, she just ran. If the others worked out where she was going, if Kate told them, then that would be fine. But Buffy had to get there before – in case…

When it came down to it, she’d been trying very hard all day not to think about the state Spike would be in, left in his crypt all alone, if only so it wouldn’t influence her decision over what to do about him. Dawn had known, but Buffy hadn’t wanted to hear it, because she knew too, deep down. There would have been drinking, lots of drinking, if not to the point of incapacitation, and that meant – 

There was too much risk, too much danger; she couldn’t think straight what might have happened if the eggs had hatched and Spike hadn’t been able to defend himself. It didn’t even matter that she’d been mad at him, or that this was his own fault – the possibility was too much, going too far.

Muscles burning with exertion, she slammed into the crypt like there was a hurricane behind her. It was dark, but the moonlight shone in, reflected off Spike’s hair where he was sat at the back of the upper floor. He didn’t have his boots or his coat on; his eyes were closed. In one hand he was holding the knife he kept by his bed – his other hand had red on it, was bleeding.

_Bleeding?_

The red ran in gashes up his arm and that was enough to make her dash over to him like she’d never left the night before. “Spike,” she demanded, “are you OK?” She could hear the panic in her voice as she dropped to a crouch.

Opening owlish eyes to stare at her, Spike certainly seemed conscious of the time that had passed. “Oh,” he began, looking at her like she was an apparition. After a moment, however, he visibly shook himself. “Nice of you to drop by,” he began again with more venom, sounding drunk – or as if he’d been drunk and had had a rude sobering up. “Think all limbs are present and accounted for, but you might want to…”

“The eggs,” she tried again, ghosting her hand towards the teeth marks on his arm. Obviously the eggs. “Are they…” She didn’t know what to say, couldn’t be sure what to do. At least he was alive. He was OK; her heart could stop beating quite so fast. “Did you kill them?”

As if she might have been making a cruel joke, then, Spike tilted his head and narrowed his eyes at her. But he didn’t seem find what he was looking for, so his gaze quickly dropped away, coming to focus on the slab of rock that covered the route downstairs. “No,” he said, sounding a little sick. “I didn’t.”

What was that about?

_Oh, wait…_

She heard it then: the scrabbling, gremlin-like sound coming from downstairs. Snarling, now that she listened; the sound of claws on stone and the –

Quite suddenly there was a crash, frenzied growling rising in volume before it fell away again. It was familiar, the sound of Spike’s bookshelves falling over, tumbling their contents to the floor. She’d knocked them over enough times to know _exactly_ what that sounded like. This time, however, she knew it wasn’t likely the contents would survive.

“Are you…” Spike began, like he was trying to distract himself from the noise. At first his voice was soft, like he didn’t want to ask, but then he continued more firmly, as if she were some distant relative, “Have you been doing all right, then?”

As she met his blank eyes, the corner of her mouth crooked into a wry smile. There wasn’t much else for it, was there? That she’d run over here so fast was pretty much evidence enough, even without her kitchen epiphany. “No,” she replied straightforwardly, settling down next to him with a sigh. “Not really.” And that was what it came down to, in the end, the reason why she was back here now. So much for all her thinking.

Because Spike didn’t know how to not take a risk, he put his crusty, bitten arm around her shoulders. She may have leaned in, giving up. “I’ve been blind drunk,” he told her, as if it might make her feel better. “Wasn’t so fun.”

For some reason, he made her laugh. “I missed you,” she admitted, feeling the emotion squeeze inside her. Maybe it had only been twenty-four hours, but that really was enough. “You get why I was angry, though, right?” she had to ask all the same, look up at his face and hope that he did. It wasn’t in her to let it go completely. “Skeevy demon deals _always_ go like this and they could’ve attacked someone else." At least the wound on his arm felt like more crust than injury. "They could’ve really hurt _you_.”

“Didn’t though, did they?” Spike replied contrarily, rubbing the sole of one of his socks on his jeans.

She knew he was just saying that to get a rise out of her, she did, but… “You can’t retrospectively decide if stuff is good or bad, Spike,” she explained, her voice gone annoyingly soft and waspish. “It doesn’t work that way.”

Grinding his teeth, he pulled her closer into his side, as if he would understand her better if he could just get her close enough. “It wasn’t meant to be _bad_ in the first place,” he groused, frustrated.

She sighed again, dropping her head onto his shoulder. _Please, will you trust me on this?_ she thought, but didn’t want to ask it out loud. Not after their last conversation about trust, just in case he really did think all that stuff. She didn’t want to hear it again.

“What are we going to do now?” she asked instead, after a little while.

Apparently as happy to change the subject as she was, Spike shrugged. “Kill the demons, I suppose.” He still had the knife in his other hand, started turning it over. “Got any bright ideas?”

She didn’t. But she did have the cavalry, in the form of Riley, Sam, Kate and the Scoobies, who she knew would be nearly at the cemetery by now. Which, oh yeah, Spike didn’t know about. It was probably best to tell him. “So, uh, _me_ not so much,” she worked through quickly, “but the guy who came into town tracking the demon who laid these things who just so happens to be Riley – he might?”

It took Spike a couple of moments to work out what she’d said. “ _Riley?_ ” he spluttered eventually, disbelieving. She knew the feeling. “When did _that_ overgrown oaf get in?”

As usual with such comments, she thwapped him in the stomach to show her disagreement, but she didn’t do it very hard. He’d only called Riley an oaf, after all. It was the little victories that were important, and that was almost one of them. “He showed up this afternoon at the police station, but –”

Apparently two seconds was how long Riley got to sustain Spike’s interest, because it was that long before he lost it. Buffy meant to explain how he would be turning up any moment, but Spike caught ‘police station’ and interrupted with, “Oh, how’s that going?”

Of course, she thought: he was always going to be the first person to ask her that. “OK, I think,” she said, smiling at her hand on his chest – he really did feel kind of nice. Calming. The stress of the day was starting to dribble away from her, even though it made no sense for it to do so. “I don’t know how much Kate likes me”, she found herself saying anyway, “and I think Riley’s gonna steal our main case as a government thing once we tell him about all this and you and everything. But I have a chair and some of a desk and I don’t smell of grease.” See? Victory.

“Don’t smell of grease, eh?” Without any more warning than that, she had a vampire nose messing up her hair, like a pig snuffling for truffles or something. Surprise brought a tittering sort of laugh from her throat, because apparently it was his calling to make her produce embarrassing sounds. She didn’t mind too much. “Hmm,” he continued as she tried to duck her head away, lips murmuring behind her ear to make her squirm. What was she supposed to call this bubbly, pleasant feeling, again? “Might need to do a more thorough investigation, just to be on the safe side…”

“Hey!” she insisted, not really trying to resist – the fear about him dying was wearing off and she was heading straight into appreciation that he was still around. At least until he teasingly bit down on her earlobe and she turned to face him straight on. “Stop that,” she said more firmly.

“Or what?” he challenged, and she had one or two very good ideas.

Unfortunately, the moment was broken by the sound of someone clearing their throat. Startled, they both spun towards the crypt doorway, and there, blocking out the light of the cemetery, were basically all of her friends, though Anya seemed to be absent. And Dawn, obviously. Willow as the one who’d coughed.

_Oh… Joy._

“Well, that was disturbing,” Xander commented first, hopefully just to break the silence.

It wasn’t welcome all the same. “Screw you, Xand,” she said, half-joking, mostly embarrassed as she clambered with Spike to her feet. She was business-like, she was business-like, she was slayer-like and stepping away from the arm around her waist, right now. And straightening her hair. Ceasing all and any heart flutters.

Riley looked like he’d swallowed an accordion and someone was still playing it inside his throat. “Mouth closed, honey,” Sam told him and Buffy thought maybe she did like the Amazon after all.

“OK, so the eggs are here and they’ve hatched,” Buffy said, trying to just brush over that part. “What’re we going to do?” She could take control if she wanted, so she did, feeling pretty much healed enough that she could cross her arms in an imposing-type manner – that only required a bent elbow, after all. They needed a plan and she was going to come up with one. Even if Spike was starting to pout distractingly. “We’re talking lots of little critters in a combined space, so normal fighting isn’t going to cut it. We need…” As her eyes trailed to Riley’s utility belt, she had a feeling like she was about to answer her own question. Spike wasn’t going to like it, though – and not in a cute pouty way either.

Before she could suggest it out loud, however, Riley found his voice. “I can’t believe it was _Spike_ this whole time!” he accused, as if Buffy should have told him and she hadn’t very reasonably been debating doing just that for five minutes before she’d had to run away. “The Doctor’s been here all along and you’re…”

 _The Doctor?_ The question cut into her mental self-defence quite suddenly, and for a moment she was plunged into panic. It was still possible that Spike was lying, in the end, and that she’d been utterly mistaken. She remembered him saying something, right before their quality session of fooling around in the sewers before her last few hours at the DMP… That had just been a coincidence, hadn’t it? One of Spike’s cheesy lines? What if –

Thankfully Kate was there to set everyone straight. “The Doctor’s in LA,” she said, not only sounding certain but completely unimpressed as well. “Do you government types not do _any_ legwork at all?”

“Hey,” defended Sam. “It’s not easy to keep up one-hundred percent when you’re tracking demons across continents.” Riley was glowering; his wife rubbed his arm. “But, uh, thanks.”

Rolling her eyes, Kate continued, “You’ve got a plan, Summers?” Suddenly they were Starsky and Hutch.

It got Buffy’s mind back on track. Critters; combined space. Well, as far as she was concerned, the two added together to equal _boom_. “Uh, yeah,” she said, nodding towards Riley. “I’m thinking grenade.”

Riley himself was blinking, but his hand fell to a compartment on his belt. Xander interjected, “Hoo, mama,” at the prospect of explosives and Buffy shook her head, crossing the floor to take it.

Before she’d gone three steps, however, a cold hand fell around her wrist. “Whoa, whoa, whoa,” Spike said as she turned around, shaking his head and, yeah, not pouting at all anymore. “You can’t be thinking, Slayer…” His eyes darted to the gathered crowd, before he stepped in closer and lowered his voice to a hiss, addressing her alone. “Buffy, _please_ ,” he asked, incredulous. “Tell me you aren’t…”

“How else are we gonna fix this, Spike?” she hissed back, willing to take suggestions, but getting angry as she started to realise…

“There’s no need to blow the whole bloody place up!” He didn’t trust her. Good god, he really didn’t. How had she forgotten that from the night before? It hit her again and it was like the bottom of her stomach dropped away, because she could see it in his pleading expression, like he had no belief that she’d do the best thing by him, like she would choose options just to hurt him. Some stuff he’d said, maybe that had been made up, thrown out there, but this particular kernel of his feelings… It was real as anything could be.

So few minutes and yet here they were, arguing again. Wasn’t that inevitable? “If even _one_ of those things gets out,” Buffy found herself insisting, almost like a sneer through her hurt, “it’s gonna be a bloodbath.” She thrust her right arm towards the downstairs entrance, glaring. “We have to end this _now_.”

Again he took the wind out of her sails, begging her, “Look, I know I’ve done wrong, but there’s no need to _punish_ me like this.”

“I’m not trying to punish you!” she told him desperately. There wasn’t time to convince him, not now, not with everyone here, but what was she supposed to say? She just wanted him to understand. “Why won’t you believe me?” she asked, too aware that it was likely her own old mistrust she could see reflected in his eyes. “I don’t…” In the past, yes; in the recent past she would have done this, blown up his stuff to make a point – but now? How could she, when looking at his upset made her ache, and all she wanted was for his flinty eyes to soften?

“My whole life’s down there,” Spike replied nonetheless, not answering but cracking even more under her gaze, as if he was begging her to see what she already knew. “My clothes, my books, my music… My fucking coat’s down there, Buffy.”

God, that goddamn coat. It gave her the heebies, thinking about him stripping it from Nikki Wood – but he’d had it so long, hadn’t he? He loved it, he really did, bound himself up in what it stood for. She didn’t know how to think of him without it. “Spike, please,” she said, stepping closer to him and taking his hand. There was nothing more she could say, was there? He’d either see it or he wouldn’t. _What do you want me to do?_

For a moment there was nothing. He sucked in his cheeks, a muscle jumping in his jaw and she really thought they were going to go nowhere. She was going to have to do this on her own and it would all be over, everything. Because in the end, she would always have to do the slayerly thing, wouldn’t she? If he didn’t trust that this was it, that she was trying to be good to him as much as she was able to, then they were going to go nowhere. She knew he understood how she put slaying first, but if he didn’t realise she wanted him second, maybe third with Dawn first, how would they ever…

Holding her breath, she squeezed his hand and tried to force herself to let go. But then, in an instant, his shoulders were slumping, he was sighing and shaking his head. With a bitter expression he nodded towards the group gathered in the doorway and said, “I don’t want any of those tossers watching.” His eyes brooked no alternative, if she didn’t want to brand herself a traitor; she wasn’t even thinking about it, too full of a watery, slippery kind of hope. “Take them home and I’ll do it in my own time.” _Without you,_ was the unspoken conclusion.

Someone was saying, “Buffy –” But she nodded, keeping her eyes on Spike and cutting them off.

 _If that’s what you need._ And this was the terrible thing, wasn’t it, because she actually _did_ trust him to do the right thing once he’d agreed to it. Somehow it had happened that way. “Riley?” she demanded, holding up her palm.

The grenade came to her hand. Spike took it, with a challenge on his face.

* * *

When they got home, Buffy convinced everyone they should go to the Bronze. More accurately, it was Willow’s suggestion, because this had apparently been her and Dawn’s wonderful Sunday night plan. The Bronze had special deals on cocktails and mocktails; it was possible Tara was going to come. But Buffy went along with it and said that everyone should go have a nice time, if they wanted. Riley, Sam and Kate made noises as if they were going to vanish and discuss all the stuff Buffy only had to worry about between the hours of whenever her hours were, but that didn’t matter. It left her with an empty house. Same difference.

Waiting on the couch in the living room, Buffy wasn’t quite sure how she was going to react when Spike came through the door. He hadn’t said he was coming, but she assumed that he would, if only because of the bootlessness. She’d have to get Xander to bring over some spares so Spike could get to the mall or wherever…

What was he going to do now? If she thought about it, she didn’t have much of an idea, but they could figure something out, couldn’t they? He could stay in the basement to start with, at least – or, well, stay in the sense of nominally having a bed there in-between times when he wasn’t in her bed or hanging around the house. If he still wanted to share her bed, that was. And if she wanted to, obviously, but it felt pretty much like she did. Who was going to fill out the side she didn’t sleep in otherwise?

When he walked in through the unlocked door, she stood up. Spike usually rang the bell, presumably out of some lingering fear he’d be kicked out, but this time he strode straight into the hallway, turning to face her.

He looked remarkably like he hadn’t even tried to get downstairs and salvage anything: empty handed, free of wounds, generally de-crusted. Buffy – wasn’t even sure how she felt about that. Now that she thought the idea through, she’d been expecting it, but apparently had accepted he could do that if he wanted. “You didn’t try and save any stuff,” she observed, before she could hold it in.

Strangely enough, the line startled him, like _he_ hadn’t expected her to think that he would. “Thought about it,” he said, coming into the living room proper as she sat back down. “But then there was your voice in my head, yammering on about risks.”

Well, huh. “You know me,” she agreed as he sat down by her side, overcome by the strange, warm feeling of relief and respect, like he respected her. “Yammer, yammer, yammer…” It was the complete opposite of the _‘I don’t trust you’_ feeling; it made her babble.

Snorting, Spike let silence fall for a while, thrumming his fingers on his knees. Still warm, she watched his face. Either what he’d done hadn’t sunk in yet, or he didn’t want to think about it, because his expression was bland, quiet. She couldn’t even imagine what it was like, throwing a grenade at your belongings. Probably he would tell her if she asked, but she didn’t want to, didn’t want to make him hurt.

“Where’s everyone else, anyway?” he asked eventually, like he wanted to start an entirely fresh conversation. Start over.

She really, really felt the same. “Out,” she replied.

Of course there was always the even more distracting alternative, which he proved as he casually threw out, “Fancy a shag?” Like she could take it or leave it and they could put this all aside for another day.

For a moment, she hesitated, not certain it was right of her to take distraction now. Everything was so up in the air; it had been such a long day and he was injured, her shoulder ached. But then…

“God, yes,” she admitted, giving in.

Immediately they were clambering towards each other, like so many times before. She straddled his hips and leaned in, kissing him like she’d wanted to since she’d entered his crypt. She had one arm hooked around his shoulders and the way his body met hers was like nothing else, breath charging through him, gasping out against her mouth. For some reason she was trembling, but she didn’t want to think about that right now; all she wanted was to feel him, feel what he was feeling, forget about anything bad.

The panic hadn’t fully faded, she realised nonetheless, staring down at his mouth as she rested her forehead against his. It was still in her, colouring every nerve with fluttering, fluffy white. There was nothing coy about the way he dragged her further up his thighs, absolutely nothing subtle in the way he ground her against the bulge in his jeans, and yet she was trembling as she kissed him again, every spark of excitement and arousal like a tremor of nervousness. “Tell me…” she whispered then, only asking, not demanding as she sought to calm herself down. “Tell me you love me?”

Of course, he didn’t get what she was asking, because he couldn’t read her mind. “How d’you bloody think I feel?” he asked back, suspicious, like she was trying to ruin their moment of escapism.

She accepted that and committed to kissing him once more, trying to promise that she didn’t mean any harm. Still she wondered, as his tongue moved across her lips and as she welcomed him with hers, what his love meant for him. She didn’t have his trust, she knew that much, but he always said she had this. Could it ever be enough? She tried to read the shapes of his mouth, feeling sounds and words she’d heard from him. The flick of his tongue on the ‘love’, the jut of his lips on the ‘you’, they were almost there, writing over her, but she couldn’t quite taste what they stood for.

Skin: that would help her, she thought, panic turning desperate as she clawed his t-shirt from his jeans and helped him scrabble at her buttons. This was another way of communicating, wasn’t it? If she kissed him at an angle she could push him back further into the cushions, bring herself closer. The feeling of him on her breasts was like cursive she was writing into him, the movement of his body guiding strokes and serifs – but… No. It wasn't anything, all nonsense, doodles as she writhed in his hands and worked on, defeated his jeans.

The sensible, soul-like part of her brain knew she should stop this, take control of the situation and end it. She wasn't going to find anything out this way. They shouldn’t be having sex on the couch, no matter how much she wanted it, because people had to sit here. She had to sit here with the Scoobies and watch TV and get on with her life, and if this happened then she would always remember. Spike had already made his home in her bed; was she letting him come down here as well?

Suddenly, then, she was dropping backwards, her legs yanked up to flail in the air as Spike’s mouth was nipping tonguey kisses at her stomach. She did nothing to resist. His fingers were on the fastenings of her chinos, fumbling them open and then pulling the material down her legs; thought evaporated. Blood rushed up towards her head and her eyes flew open, watching her right hand grapple for something to hold onto – it slammed into the contents of the coffee table because she couldn’t work out the angles upside down, swiped at magazines and squidged into nacho mess. So much for her control.

“Urgh,” she gurgled, shuddering, wanting up. Spike seemed to have other ideas, kissing up her bare legs like he wanted her to hook them around his neck, go for the most ill-advised sixty-niner ever; but she needed to see him, needed to be able to judge… As much as she preferred the view as she was pulled back in close, eye line working up from his knee to the fleshier part of his thigh, and as much as he made her gasp and writhe, this wasn’t what she’d signed on for. “Let me down, let me _down_!”she told him with words and kicks until he was laughing, guiding her hips back down his chest as she sat up, gasping with the uncertainty.

She meant to be angry, but… _Oh._ He was biting his lip, wickedness in every pale angle of his body. Even with her headrush, she was overcome, hiccoughs of his infectious laughter in her chest where heart squeezed from the sight of him.

It seemed like the moment, so she moved carefully. Yes, sex on the couch was happening, she told herself. Was there any other option? Again she wrapped her right arm around him, but she joined it with her rapidly more useful left hand around his cock. Kissing him close, she leant up onto her knees and then over him, settling with a shudder of pleasure, one adjustment and a sigh. His chuckles mellowed into moans and she held him closer, everywhere, rocking gently to send perfectly-formed frissons of pleasure through them both. It felt even more perfect than it should have been.

The sounds he made were reverent, his body so yielding beneath her. _What is this?_ she thought as she closed her eyes, not entirely sure whose feelings she was feeling, what she was thinking about. _Is this love?_

“I love you, all right?” came the obstinate growl in her ear, accompanied by harder thrusts upward – because apparently she’d spoken out loud. And Spike thought she was still on the same question. “Fucking hell…” When he said it, though, she thought she could feel it, rumbling through his body where she held him and clutched every echo into her skin. There was calm, definitely calm, acceptance and connection. With his shoulder blades beneath her forearm, his arms curling up her spine – yeah, this was almost like completion and she wondered if that was what his love was: this shifting, gasping necessity.

Secure in his rolling hips, his soothing hands, she could relax herself around him, be gentle and let him be gentle back. That was definitely something and maybe he called it love, but… She knew it as trust, didn't she? As she felt herself give way to him, softening and melting into the warmth of his hold, she knew that had been there for a while. Even as she whispered, “God help me,” she knew he’d shush the fear away, soothe tension up her back.

This time, however, for the first time, she wanted him to know that it was him doing this, his love that was setting her off. How else would ever believe her, if she kept the truth from him now? Her eyelids were fluttering and her head was filling full with dizziness, yet again, and the sound of her breathing, but she said it, “Thank – thank you,” then gulped as they kissed on.

Eventually it all came together. Her mouth opened to pull in one choked breath; her nose smooshed into his. Vertigo-bright warmth engulfed her. She couldn’t see much, but she could see blue, wide open vistas of it. “You’re amazing,” she promised him, herself, in something not a whimper, slumping into his hard body. “God, fuck, you’re really amazing.”

It made him chuckle, tenderness in every line of tension. “Should see you doing this,” was all he said, like a prayer, before he kissed her again and rolled them down onto the seat cushions of the couch, cosseting her into place and taking control. Obviously because she was still lost. “Perfect, you are, when you go again,” he swore, the words swirling in front of her eyes. “Can’t get enough of it.” His hands felt rough on her sensitised skin, but that was OK – she was starting to realise how he felt. “It’s like I’ve found you, really found the heart of you.”

 _I think you have._ “I think you –” She cried out when he pushed fully back up into her, jerked awake as she arced into the couch. Still she was shaking, too much now, and one old part of her expected him to be looking down at her with vengeance, the cruel need to push her over the edge so he could get off himself. But there was none of it, only an expression of deep, nurturing desire, to accompany the pleasure rushing in behind that kick-start of a shock. She was captivated, so pulled him down for closer inspection, smelled the light scent of nicotine and vampire sweat in his hair.

 _I know you,_ she realised as he thrust again, every muscle in place where she felt them. Her mind was rattled, but she could recognise his, the way it worked, the way it animated movement and speech and all of this, the way it tried to be good. Clarity was coming out of nowhere. _I think…_ She was trying too, wasn’t she? They were both trying. _I…_ And it was a cliché to think this now, as he rammed cool flares of satisfaction through her, but she’d never done it before, had she? It didn’t seem fair not to tell him, just because of circumstance. _It’s really you._ She had to tell him, didn’t she? How else would he find out?

All of her attention shifted to forming shapes with her lips. Shaping breath into voice. Feeling him, she knew she had to beat him to the words, to their silence.

She could do it, couldn’t she? She could –

His face was blurry in front of her crossed eyes, but for a moment she could see him all the same, everything she couldn’t give up. That was the moment when Buffy stopped thinking anything – because she knew it all in her bones.

“I love you.”

It came out as a croak, but was nonetheless quite loud, her words echoing in the silent living room and the sudden stillness between them. In the panic of saying it, panic she knew now for what it was, her heartbeat picked up, a little faster than it even had been and diffusing her orgasm into a wild, cold pounding of blood through her heart and ears. Sight, hearing, smell, touch, taste all came back in a rush: her world reeked of Nacho Cheese Doritos and old, used underwear.

_Oh, god; what have I done?_

Spike was staring at her, paused over her with his elbows either side of his arms. Cold air was rushing between their bodies; Buffy could feel it on her breasts and could imagine it running over him. It didn’t feel good.

After a moment, it was as if he hadn’t heard her. He shook his head. “You – _what?_ ” he choked out in an avid whisper, sounding completely and utterly lost.

Clearly she would have to take control. Somehow. It was coming back to her body at least; her heart was slowing down and the bright, warm afterglow of her first time was still there in her muscles. “We can get back to the – you know,” she began in halting explanation, rising on her right elbow. It had to be OK, didn’t it? Even if she was afraid, he wouldn’t mind, he wouldn’t… “I didn’t mean…” _Apart from that you did._ “It’s just something I wanted to tell you,” she finished a little desperately, trying to remember the thought process. “I thought you should know.”

She could still see him, that was the terrifying thing. The inside of his thoughts ticking away like something beautiful, something she needed to never stop. “Oh, right,” he was replying, shellshocked. “Well – thanks.” For a moment her worry flared again into panic, yet again, because he was slipping out of her, softening, rolling onto his back by her side. Clearly he couldn’t take it, couldn’t accept…

But it was only a moment he needed to process, apparently, because immediately his left arm was catching her up and scooping her onto his chest. As he entangled their legs she met him for a long, heated smooch, almost sobbing with relief. “Is that OK?” she asked between kisses, her insides way too raw with worry. “Are we OK?”

He smiled as he smoothed a hand down her hair and she fell in love again, like she was dropping in an elevator. “Bloody yes,” he promised. _You daft thing._ “Bit of a shock is all.”

She’d picked a crap moment. Even as she basked in his radiant expression, felt radiant herself, she knew it. Everything was out of order and she was going to LA the next morning; he’d worry she didn’t mean it and she’d worry herself, forget, maybe, what it felt like until she remembered again.

But… She loved him. Actually, she did. She couldn’t hold that in forever, could she?


	7. By Letting You In.

Buffy slept easily that night. She was lulled into it, snug in Spike’s arms as her eyes drifted closed and as her heartbeat gradually settled into rest. It was like she didn’t have a care in the world, or at least as if she had strategically forgotten them for the time being.

As for Spike? Well, for a long time, he just watched.

It wasn’t intentional. He knew that if she woke up she would probably find him creepy, but his mind wouldn’t shut up and let him sleep. Over and over again, he kept trying to relive the moment when she said she’d loved him, but it wouldn’t quite come, frustrating him, keeping him awake.

Eventually he nodded off, but even then he had a one track mind.

 

_”So, what does this mean?”_

_Bloody idiot, what d’you say that for?_

_“What do you mean what does this mean?”_

_You’ll scare her off; you know she doesn’t… “I mean, what does this mean?”_

_Is anything going to change? What is this between us now?_

_Why can’t you fucking bask, you twat? Look at her, arm on the pillow, quilt round her legs, all that cunt and arse and hips and waist and tits, that glow of sweat down her front. This is where you shut up and shag the life out of her, that little bit more, make her show it you. Don’t lie here, asking…_

_“It means…” Don’t hold your breath. It’s only a sigh. “Right now it pretty much means I’m lying here, with you, while my clothes and all that mess is still downstairs. Even though we know Dawn and Willow are back and will be up before us, probably, tomorrow. And… It means I can feel my mascara clogging around my eyes, but I don’t have any energy to wash up - and I’m naked wearing all my jewellery, which if I remember art history class means I look like a whore…”_

_Christ, look at her; she doesn’t even know. Those smudges round her eyes, jewels glinting from her hair – that’s grown out now, hasn’t it? She’d have got it cut if she wasn’t growing it, wouldn’t she? Dare to dream – but don’t fucking say anything. Distract yourself. What’s that necklace, knotted gold rope – shouldn’t be lost up there, should sit proudly, cut away from her brace straps and measure down her sternum._

_How does she breathe that deep, only from your fingers on her skin? Why? When did that happen? Those eyes, those bright, round eyes, have they ever looked this vulnerable? This hungry?_

_“I like your jewellery.” Stay suave. Stay bloody suave. “Like the way it sets off your skin.” Gold on gold beneath your white hand; hold it there forever and one day you might touch her…_

_Fuck, dammit, this is bloody touching her. “The way it sets off my boobs, you mean.”_

_Yes. And if that’s an invitation, take it._

_Don’t tremble; she’s only touching your shoulder._

_“It’s all right, you know? I mean – that’s kind of, maybe, a little why I bought it?”_

_Kiss her. Let her seduce you. You know it’s the only way to survive this._

_She doesn’t bloody know, though, does she? What she is? What’s to come? She’s too…_

_No, you prat, she knows. Been to heaven and back, this girl. Not an innocent for a long time. That’s love you’re tasting, what she’s shivering with. Hope. Might be all you get, so appreciate it._

_“Got any other secrets I should know about?”_

_Wanker. Couldn’t let it go, could you?_

_“Hmm, well, I guess there is one.”_

_This doesn’t change anything. Maybe she’s being gentle with your chain, easing you down so the links caress, whispering and trembling – but it changes nothing._

_“I love your jewellery too.”_

_She’s still leaving you in the morning._

 

With a rush of memory and the cold, fearful dread he might have missed her, Spike’s eyes slammed open to the morning light. His nostrils flared.

_What the bloody hell were you thinking, sleeping at a time like this?_

Buffy wasn’t in bed, but he could smell her, the chemical papaya scent of her body wash and the mint of her toothpaste. Not gone yet, but she’d got up without him, had a shower without inviting him, just like any other day when he’d been asleep and she’d been in a rush. This was what healing meant, presumably.

It wasn’t like she meant anything by it: she’d have woken him up before she left, snogged him farewell, and if they’d had a few minutes he would have given her something to remember him by. But she was in love with him now, wasn’t she? She’d said... The whole world had stopped, changed axis, spun around and reset the seasons. It was hard to believe, now she was doing everything the same.

Sitting up, everything really _was_ the same. Buffy had managed to get her trousers on, all grey faux-wool and serious, but was struggling with her white shirt. Her left arm was in, but her right wouldn’t quite wiggle down the sleeve, and he could see how she was flinching away from stretching over to make it work. Still not quite healed, poor love.

_You overdid it with her._

But she didn’t seem to be in pain. She was hopping on her toes in front of the mirror, flapping her arm and scowling like murder, wet hair bedraggled – but she didn’t look upset. She certainly hadn’t noticed the empty sheets rumpling behind her.

The sight had Spike falling for her, first time that day. He climbed out of bed with his heart in his throat, moved silently for no real reason other than to gauge her reaction to him up close. “Here,” he mumbled, with a voice that hadn’t quite woken up yet, straightening out her shirtsleeve so her arm could travel down. Cheap thing was stitched too tight at the elbow, that was the problem. But it wasn’t his place to say anything about that.

More important, anyway, was Buffy. She jumped a little in surprise, eyes flickering from the empty space in the mirror to her shoulder and then up to his eyes. That was to be expected; what was to be assessed and scrutinised and judged, no matter that he knew he shouldn’t, was the way her scowl softened into a smile. The way she said, “Hey, sleepybones,” kissed him, then tried to keep her eyeline above his cock.

One glance sufficed, all the same, for enough blood to run south that his brain couldn’t keep up. (He’d never been one for scientific enquiry.) Accepting the inevitable, Spike shook himself and stuck with the basics. This was Buffy – she was warm and small and pretty – so he wrapped his arms around her and watched as she did her buttons, looked down as her bra disappeared. “You didn’t wake me up,” he complained, still feeling miffed. She didn’t need much help with her clothes anymore, but he wasn’t trying to patronise; she had to realise, didn’t she?

She was smiling at least. “You know the line writes itself, right?” Buffy told him, dry white-wine pitch of irony in her voice. “You? Sleep? Dead?”

It made him chuckle, because she had a point. But, all the same… “That right?”

It wasn’t really a plan, but Spike dragged her back against him anyway, stifling a moan as her tight little backside jumped against his dick. Snuffling into her neck, muscle memory found him right at her jugular, but he only wanted a nibble, just a tease, a little growl and her response. That sweet squeal and the skip to her heartbeat: enough to break some sweat beneath all the chemicals, that honey-botanical scent of her body bringing her back into his world, before she left him alone.

Although – her shirt seemed freshly washed and laundered, whenever she’d had time to do _that_ , but he was getting the impression they might have had a shag with her in it once. It had a faint whiff as though it had ended up in bed with them, else the floor, not quite discarded.

Hmm… That would be enough for Angel to remember, wouldn’t it, if he got this close?

Dammit, now he was imagining… _No._

Fucking hell; why did he think these things? Soulless and carefree was meant to be the deal. Over a hundred years and he still felt shortchanged. “You coming back tonight?” Spike found himself asking, the memory of her absence yesterday curling cold in his stomach. Her absence tonight yet again. “We could…” He wanted to say that they could go out on the town, but they _never_ went out on the town, except in his fantasy life. It was too soon to ask. Wasn’t it?

“I should be,” Buffy replied, not even noticing his slip. Her shirt was finished now, but she stood comfortably against him, eyes ducked to his arms under hers and her hands resting over his on her silly snake belt. He had a feeling that was to stop him going lower, likely because she didn’t have another smart change of clothes. Pity. “It’s gonna be a long day, though,” she continued with a sigh, likely not disappointed about the same thing he was. “Like I said, I don’t know how much time I’ll need at the lawyers’, so…”

“You’re gonna spend the night with Angel, aren’t you?” he understood, couldn’t help it, heart sinking. Nothing had changed at all.

“I’m not gonna sleep in his _bed_!” Buffy exclaimed, pushing free and turning in his arms. “Who the hell do you think I am?” She was angry, but she wasn’t – that was the strange thing; startling, even. She was afraid: her mouth was hard, but her eyes were soft, searching, round. Seeing him. “Where’s this coming from?” she asked, before she seemed to realise. “We really didn’t finish talking trust, did we?” Didn’t even let him answer, just slumped in disappointment, tore his heart out. “I knew you didn’t…” Then those lovely eyes fell away from his, coming to rest somewhere on the carpet by their sides. “God, I should have waited.”

 _That_ made Spike seize up, enough at last to respond. “No,” he told her, most of his breath choked on the fear she would take her love back, what he had of it. It had been likely from the moment she’d said it, but… He couldn’t imagine what he would be like without it now, the promise, the possibility of connection, confirmed only to be negated because he was a twat. She still wasn’t looking at him, but her hands were on his forearms, his hands still allowed to hold her hips. “I trust you,” he promised, because he had to. Didn’t he?

“I want to believe you,” Buffy said, eyes turned back now, full of tears. She raised her right arm to wrap it around his neck, then started playing with what was likely an unholy bedhead; it almost made him cry himself. “Like I guess you probably want to believe me.”

He _did_ believe her. She loved him. Things were different now, even if she was about to walk out of the door without him.

When Spike tried to say it, however, the words stuck in his throat, so he kissed her instead, desperate to feel what he felt around her one last time. For the memory.

But then – her lips were trembling, quavering while his started doing to same. It was like they’d never kissed before, as if they couldn’t remember what to do. Spike wanted to remind her who he was, that he was the shag of her life and she’d be a fool to do him wrong, but he’d forgotten quite how to articulate that. It was nigh on impossible when all she made him feel was this deep, begging _need_ : he wanted her attention, whatever type she could spare, and he wanted her to come _back_ , whatever she did down in LA. It didn’t leave him much to bargain with.

For Buffy's part, it was like she wanted him to accept her, whatever. That wasn’t new, though. Ever since she’d started throwing him against walls there was a tone, a violent question of whether he could take her, whether he would have her. But – it usually came with the backswing, that if he couldn’t hack it, then she’d have him anyway and he’d be done for. That wasn’t there anymore.

The threat hadn’t much been there for a while, but now, even as Buffy walked them back to the bed, as Spike sat down and she took him side-saddle, it felt like she was placing herself in his hands. A couple of sighs escaped her, crushed against his lips; he had to take her in his arms – one around her back, one under her legs – and hold her properly while she stroked his face.

“We’re good, aren’t we?” Buffy was saying, pulling Spike out of the fog and frowning an enigmatic little frown. “We’re OK?”

“Better than ever,” he agreed, because he had to and because he believed it, smiling in the hope it would make her look a little less lost.

She matched his smile crookedly, probably trying to do the same thing. “That’s not so hard, I guess, is it?”

“Don’t matter,” he replied, convincing himself. She was right, of course. They’d been a long way down in their time, so the only choice, really, was to go up. Either that or on to a cataclysm, but he didn’t fancy that happening today.

_Famous last words, Spike._

Shaking himself, Spike grit his teeth and pushed on with the optimism, stating, “Progress is progress, far as I’m concerned.” He would make himself believe it.

Buffy didn’t look so sure either, but she nodded. “Yeah,” she said, still frowning, her voice quiet. “Progress.”

Silence hung. It wasn't one of the good ones.

“So…” Spike cleared his throat, not quite able to look at her and control his emotions at the same time. Bloody emotions; they were a waste of everyone’s time. “You got everything you need?” He should forbid himself from talking about love until he could manage it better.

Still, Buffy seemed to be willing to go with whatever it was they were doing: she relaxed against him, dropping one soggy head of hair onto his shoulder. It made him jump a little bit, but that was just a good excuse to hold onto her more tightly. “I think so,” she said, puffing hot air onto his neck. “I’ve got all the papers and stuff. Kind of lacking an attorney, but I’m really hoping Brian’s a good enough guy to let that go. Mom got through pretty much all the legal preshow, and… We did something with signatures, I think?”

It sounded exhausting. “Give me a call when it’s done, yeah?” It wasn’t quite fair, asking her to find a phone and fill him in, but if she ended up in the Hyperion then there was bound to be the possibility. They could run up Angelface a nice, hefty bill. “I want to know how it goes.”

If she could get out of this quagmire of money issues, all her debts, Spike wasn’t even sure what would happen. Hell knew Buffy had changed after dying and coming back, but he still had the feeling she could be pushed a little further towards happiness, if not that strange, smiling creature she’d once been. She used to bring him to his knees; now she spent most of her time looking him in the eye. And that wasn’t to say he didn’t love it, love her, but she wasn’t meant to be as miserable as him, nor so angry.

Like now. “Sure,” Buffy was saying, hesitantly, like she couldn’t quite tell what his motives were, or whether there could ever be any good news to tell him. “I mean,” she continued, shifting a touch in his lap to play with the first scratchings of new hair on his chest. “I haven’t even gotten hold of Angel yet, so I might be coming straight home.”

“Eh?” Well, all right, that was a change in topic. “What d’you mean?”

“There’s been no answer at his hotel,” Buffy explained, like she’d been trying not to think about the potential problem. “I left a message on the voicemail and then I called back yesterday, tried Wesley’s old number to get the call redirected and everything, but nobody picked up.” Her fingers paused, just when Spike had been enjoying the feel of them on his skin. Not that he didn’t enjoy it always. “D’you think that’s bad?” she asked him, as if he had the answers. “I thought he’d have called me back by now.”

Spike didn’t have a clue what to make of it. Someone as anal as Angel could be expected to keep up his correspondence, no? Especially with Buffy. It sounded like something was wrong. “He was having trouble with that bloke, wasn’t he?” Spike suggested, pulling ideas out of the air and trying to remember what had happened in LA, apart from a good night’s shagging amongst some books. “Eighteenth-Century Man?” Did he remember that right?

“Marty McFly’s grumpy British uncle,” Buffy at least confirmed, throwing the comment out there like time travel was to be expected. How jaded the young were these days… “But they can’t be having problems with him,” she then continued, proving what the papers said about entitlement as well. “ _We_ have problems. Enough problems for everyone. LA should be problem-free.”

Now, why exactly was it that his heart clenched at the sound of her whining like a spoiled brat? If she lifted her head she’d have that pout on her lips, but that wasn’t it. “Don’t think it works like that, love,” he was saying, caught between amusement and the urge to pull her back under the squishy bedclothes with him. Trying to resist, he kissed her hair and stood them both back up. “Now; I thought someone was beautifying herself.”

That earned him an outraged glare and a slap on his shoulder, which was just the thing to leave his skin tingling as he let her go, crawling back up the bed to watch as she started on her hair. “You are _so_ lucky you can do the things you can do,” she accused him, pointing the hairbrush his way. Settling back in his haven of Buffy-sex-smell, resting against his arms on the headboard, he really didn’t give a toss. But then, quite unexpectedly, the hair brush fell along with Buffy’s face and he was almost out again to apologise. “You’re gonna be here tonight, right?” was the question that actually came, but it came with enough awkwardness and worry Spike was thinking he should get a hold on her again.

“Not got much of elsewhere to go,” he said, telling her the truth. The crypt would be habitable, maybe, at least for the likes of him, but, fucking hell, would that be depressing. Spike didn’t want to think about it. Wasn’t thinking about it. “Should probably start scoping out a new place.” God, he really had nothing now, didn’t he?

“You can keep stuff here if you like,” Buffy said then, and he almost didn’t hear it. “In the basement or – you know…” Spike looked up and she was watching him with those hawk’s eyes of hers, mouth ready to snap. But not quite yet. “It’s way too soon to think about –” What was she thinking about? He wasn’t thinking anything – well, apart from the quality unexpected shags that could come from sharing a place… “It’s too soon,” she repeated, and he fancied there was slight flush on her cheeks as she got the picture too. “But if you need somewhere to keep stuff,” she persisted, “until, you know, you find your own… There’s space here.” Now she was blushing full out, but it seemed like that was mostly to do with the matter at hand. “And, um, I guess, don’t feel like – you don’t have to rush or anything.”

The bed felt like it was sinking to accept him. Spike was – more than anything, he was touched. Like the sun appearing from behind clouds, he was in one of those few moments when he felt like he could almost see what she was thinking, and that seemed to be some sort of sympathy for his crypt’s demise. Even though she’d asked him to do it – and even though it had been his own fault. “All right,” he agreed, talking past the lump in his throat, not quite sure what to do with himself. She smiled and he smiled back, his vision full of her.

* * *

She left too soon. Not quite as soon as she could have done; there were twenty minutes left on the clock by the time she was finished getting ready and she chose to spend them with him, curled up on top of the covers to prod him about what he was going to do all day – but it still wasn’t enough.

The moment she walked out the door, as he watched her be driven away from a shady angle by the window, it was like the whole day spread out before him, empty and meaningless. There were things to do, things he had to do, but they all seemed rather less necessary now it came round to getting them done. He’d have to go to the mall and buy some clothes, unless he intended to walk around starkers next time he had to clean some goo off his jeans. That wouldn’t work with Dawn in the house.

More importantly than that, Spike thought, looking around at the froufrou wallpaper and its embarrassing posters of curtain-haired twats, he needed to get out. He wasn’t meant to belong here when Buffy wasn’t around; he was meant to have an unlife, being something other than a pathetic piece of pet mould. It was why he played poker, even when that apparently led him even further astray than avoiding it.

He wasn’t quite sure what he was about these days. Everything had lacked colour after Buffy had died, but he figured it should have come back with her resurrection. As it was, it was only her who had colour, really; dark and moody swirls of it, captivating against the drabness of everything else. Even if she was unpredictable as hell – and had the tendency to leave him in the lurch.

For a while Spike sat on the carpet, gaze wandering to the empty reflection of the mirror.

He could go back to bed, he thought, but he doubted he’d be able to sleep. There was still his copy of _Dorian Gray_ under his pillow, but he’d finished that the other night. Was there any reason to start it again? Buffy had liked the bit he’d read to her in hospital, but –

_For fuck’s sake, get on with it._

Shaking himself, Spike forced his thoughts away.

Climbing to his feet, eventually, he got on with it.

It seemed like Buffy had gone on a pre-dawn raid for their clothes, Spike realised, because his jeans and yesterday’s t-shirt were quite visible in the pile of all her frilly, colourful things. Fondly removing the knickers caught on his fly-button – and it was nice to see their clothes fancied each other as well – Spike checked the wallet still wedged in his back pocket.

He still had most of the money from the eggs deal. It would have to last, but there was two-hundred, two-twenty bucks still in there. He could do cheap shirts and maybe a spare pair of jeans, but he needed some boots, and, as the maxim went, a gentleman did not walk around in a cheap jacket, even if Spike had long upgraded it to the opinion that naff tailoring was for wankers. Why on earth Nikki Wood had owned such a well-made man’s coat, he’d never know, but it was gone now and he needed something that could at least hold a tealight to the memory. Fine.

Decision made, he dumped the wallet on the dresser where he’d remember it and plodded out onto the empty landing, into the empty bathroom. He took a shower, _not_ with Buffy’s papaya body wash, then wandered back to Buffy’s room, adding hair gel to the mental list of things he needed to buy. Clothes on, he stripped the bed to be domestic, didn’t smell it, and decided the grey towel could do with a wash as well, so took it with him downstairs.

Turning from the stairs into the kitchen, en route to the basement, he got the fright of his unlife.

“Hey, Spike.”

A pillowcase slipped from his pile as he came to a dead stop. Willow was there at the breakfast bar, half a smile on her face but hardly any cheer. “Bloody hell,” he said, not bothering to hide his surprise. The witch had been frosty with him ever since Buffy’s birthday when she’d walked in on him tied up; there didn’t seem much call for him to be polite. “Forgot you’d be here.” He vaguely recalled telling her to suck him off or let him go, but that had been a clear case of mistaken identity – not to mention more of a challenge than a command. There was no need for her to hold this grudge about it.

“Well, I do live here,” Willow said anyway, sarcastic as he kicked the rogue pillowcase up off the floor. Snorting, he decided it was best to leave her to her orange juice and continued towards the basement, only for her to add, out of the blue, “Oh yeah; Buffy said to say that Xander brought you some boots to wear.”

“Xander?” Spike frowned, pausing in the shadow by the basement door. Why would he have brought him boots? The wanker hated him. And had massive, clodhopping feet.

Willow didn’t seem much thrilled about the idea either. “They keep spares on the site,” she explained. “Buffy asked him.”

Well, all right then. “I’ll have to say thanks when I see him,” he answered, meeting Willow’s eyes to take in her inscrutable, Nancy Drew expression for a moment, before he let himself into the basement.

Even then, Willow followed, footsteps sounding out a few steps behind his. “She said you might be staying for a while,” came the next barb.

When the hell had Buffy had the time for all these conversations? That was what Spike wanted to know. Surely there weren’t that many hours in the day? It was barely the afternoon. “Well, she offered.” He kept his voice bland, hoping to be shot of this conversation as quickly as possible. “Let me get back on my feet and I’ll be out of your hair in a few days.” It wasn’t what he wanted to do, but it would probably be easier for all concerned if he found somewhere else for the daytime. He did need to get out, if only because Willow had a face on her like she was planning to get her radio after midnight and play it passive-aggressively through the wall.

“Oh, no, it’s fine,” she said as he loaded up the washing machine, even though it clearly wasn’t. Spike didn’t really care; added the powder and set everything going. “Are you… Gonna be around when Dawn gets home from school?”

That got his attention. Turning his back to the machine, Spike crossed his arms, trying to work out what the witch was getting at. “Why?” he asked.

“It’s nothing, really,” Willow replied, waving her hands as if she could cast an illusion of meaninglessness over her sincerity. “It’s only – I think she might have taken the whole feuding authority figures thing pretty hard. You could talk to her about it.”

“Is that right?” Narrowing his eyes, Spike still wasn’t entirely sure what was going on. The strip light of the basement let him see Willow’s eagerness quite well, and maybe it was true that she could notice things when she wanted, but he didn’t understand why that meant she could tell him what to do. “How about you leave me and Dawn to me, yeah?” he suggested, not letting her play out her power trips on _him_. He could notice things on his own, _thank you very much_.

At least she seemed to catch his meaning: her face fell. He rolled his eyes. “Sure, OK,” she said. “So, um, what’s your plan for the mall?”

Now that was a better question. “Well…”

* * *

It seemed Mayor Wilkins hadn’t been all that interested in speeding the teenagers of Sunnydale’s main residential area to their drug of choice, because the sewer route between Revello Drive and the mall was one of the most circuitous the town had to offer. It took about forty minutes, end to end, and its only real virtue was that it brought a fellow out right in the covered car park, so he could waltz sunbeam-free right into the main complex and its artificial light, happy as you please with all the other shoppers.

If that mother and her kids cared about Spike popping out of the manhole right in front of them, they were certainly too smart to say so.

The shopping was, for the most part, tedious. That place where they sold all that Camden market bollocks was full of teenybopper mums trying to source their misunderstood darling a Linkin Park t-shirt. The price of DMs had gone up again. As for jackets, he couldn’t afford leather and he couldn’t afford long, so he found himself weighing up options in khaki, denim and, Lucifer help him, something approaching tweed – though it was at least fake enough not to smell of piss. Denim went right out the moment he saw a portly bloke in his forties puff his way past while wearing a whole outfit of blue. Spike hadn’t much bothered keeping up with fashion, but considering how much of a prat that bloke looked, he couldn’t bring himself to even imagine something similar for himself.

The tweed was black at least, which was its only redeeming feature. He’d never be able to show his face in a demon bar again, but then he wasn’t doing much of that at the moment as it was. Poker played by different rules, and the colour of a man’s kittens was far more important than what he was wearing… But after the Randy Giles fiasco, could he really bear it? Was he only tempted because of how plastic and brightly coloured the rest of the mall’s options seemed? (Which shop was he in, even? He didn’t know anymore.)

If he didn’t go for the tweed, which he was starting to appreciate the feel off, and how long it would last against Buffy and a wall, the only other option _was_ the khaki, in that other department store across the way. Bland, thin, unlined, soldier-boy khaki, which even Riley Finn had apparently dropped in favour of more decent gear.

Looking across the racks of men’s clothing, keeping himself out of sight from the mirror and away from as much of the harsh lighting as possible, Spike contemplated the array of ugly, more standard black coats he’d already rejected. He couldn’t do it, could he? He simply couldn’t replace the old duster with something so bloody ordinary. Right now he was at a turning point, the moment when he’d lay Nikki’s memory to rest in peace; he couldn’t do it in a waterproof with faux-horn buttons. And he thought he could remember Buffy saying something about finding blazers hot.

But no. Tweed was too far. Much too far. This was madness. He’d go with the khaki and then see about raising himself enough cash for something more appropriate.

It was really hard, Spike thought, to remember why he wasn’t just nicking this stuff. He passed by a rack of leather on his way out and it was all clearly wired in to an alarm, the sort of thing that would have required a full slaughter of the staff in the old days, rather than daylight robbery and the quick kill of security later – and, all right, that didn’t need Buffy’s morals so much as a bit of practical thinking. The rest of it, though… He didn’t really want it, not the nasty polycotton shirts he had in his carrier bag, nor the jacket he was off to buy, but it was all he could afford, so he was stuck with it. What kind of choice was that? He resented wasting what little money he had on stuff he didn’t want, but what could he do? Live in filth and hope more money came along? The Summers’ house was out of blood, so needed some money for that. And fags, they were dearer by the day; he was on rations for the ones he had left in his other back pocket. (He wasn’t even thinking about how ridiculous he looked, wandering around with a padded arse – he needed his front pockets for his hands and this was why he was buying a jacket.)

With such important matters occupying his thoughts, it really wasn’t surprising that he managed to pass the teenager in the health and beauty section of the store and make his way up the escalator without even blinking. One purchase of one ugly jacket later, however, and it came rushing back.

Purple Converse sneakers. Long, straight, shampoo-commercial brown hair.

Turning back to the escalators with trepidation, Spike looked down at the time on his receipt.

_14:18_

And it wasn’t the weekend.

Ah yes, the less moral Miss Summers. Looked like Brainbox Willow had been on to something after all. _Bollocks._


	8. Maybe the Time is Right.

When Spike came back downstairs, Dawn was still browsing Health and Beauty. She was pretty easy to spot, in the end, as the only school-aged kid he could see, though he doubted she was the only one playing hooky from Sunnydale Junior High.

Initially, he decided, he didn’t want her to know he was there. He wanted to know what she was doing, what she was looking at and why she was _here_ , since, as far as he could remember from the Revello Drive bathroom, she had beauty lotions and potions and gadgets coming out of her ears. He couldn’t quite remember how her school worked, if it was possible she’d been let out early for not having any lessons at the end of the day, but that didn’t seem likely. She was only fifteen – weren’t there rules about that sort of thing?

As it was, he needed hair gel, so Spike started browsing for that, actually browsing for a Dawn-shaped girl, but making sure he didn’t give that impression to anybody else. It was a rather easy hunting habit of the old days, one he had no qualms about using now, and it got him through Styling right around the corner from Shampoo and Conditioner, where he could pause by the end display, drop out of eye line when a shampoo-shopper looked up.

Dawn, after all, seemed to be shopping for shampoo. She was in the wrong section, at least for a girl with her budget, reading price labels on bottles getting up past fourteen dollars, on to twenty and over. He understood an urge towards the finer things in life, but watching the girl pick up bottles and avidly read the bollocks they’d written on the back about what was essentially the same old soap, well, he’d almost had enough.

Then, however, it got worse. On a dramatic spark of ‘oh, hang on!’, Dawn put the shampoo she was reading back, then pulled her large shoulder bag down to her elbow and opened it, rummaging around and then glancing past it to see that one of her shoelaces was coming undone. This wasn’t an uncommon occurrence, and Spike had to accept it was slick, but he couldn’t help wincing as Dawn stood back up, knocking a couple of low-shelf, expensive bottles into her bag along the way, behind the cover of her body and faster than a dozy perusal of CCTV would catch.

 _Artful Dodger, eat your heart out._ He hadn’t taught her that trick, had he? It wasn’t like he operated with a bag, so it couldn’t have been him. Most of his thieving from shops like this relied very simply on being fast, but that wasn’t available to Dawn, so she must have adapted. Too bright for her own good, that was his girl.

“Oi, niblet,” Spike said then, before she could get her bag closed. He wasn’t sure he could carry on watching, and was starting to get more than a little angry with her. Maybe that wasn’t the right emotion, but it was the only one he had on him. Yeah, all right, Dawn had watched him steal a hundred things and they’d had a laugh about it, but she wasn’t supposed to go out on a limb and risk herself like this. She _certainly_ wasn’t meant to take him as her role model. What the hell did she think she was playing at?

When she’d worked out who was talking to her, Dawn spun to face him like she’d been struck with an electric shock, colour bleached white from her face, guilt in her big eyes. That was more like what Spike expected to see. It made him feel a tad off-colour, but all the experience with Buffy made him realise you couldn’t ever fully distract people and their souls from the feeling – you had to ride it out.

And so he asked Dawn, “You had any lunch?” making it clear in no uncertain terms that she was coming with him. She wasn’t getting out of this that easily. “Let’s have lunch.”

“Spike…” she began, finding her voice but starting to shake, fingers trembling on her bag handles. At least she knew he wasn’t impressed. That boded well, didn’t it? He’d always tried to keep a ‘do as I say, not as I do’ approach with her, if only to keep her out of trouble with her sister.

Crossing the few steps down the shampoo aisle, he moved to get hold of Dawn’s arm and drag her, not forcibly, but painlessly encouraging, out of this place and down to the food court. One step in, however, he had Buffy’s nagging voice in his head and he realised there was more to think about, just like there always was. He had to make a decision, right now and fast, even though he knew that wasn’t his strong point. The most expedient route out of this was to sneak his gel into Dawn's bag along with the two other bottles, get her to close the thing up and scarper to the food court. Yeah, that would definitely be the easiest – and it wasn’t like he hadn’t already been thinking about slipping the tub in his hand into his jacket bag and getting on with his day rather than queue again. But then…

What would Buffy do if she were here? What would she want him to do? He could see the scene played with Buffy in his place: the panic and fear taking over her expression, worry about Dawn making her yell, imagination running towards how things had come to this point, her own fault in the proceedings. She'd put the shampoo back on the shelf and march her sister out of here, head in hands and likely not allowed back to the store or even the mall, no matter if her friends ever wanted to loiter, or she wanted new clothes.

Spike couldn’t do that. He couldn’t bring himself to. He’d rip Dawn a new one when they were home – or back at 1630, at least – but he couldn’t make a scene out here, make her feel so terrible about it and what he knew was her favourite place. But even then - he knew that Dawn would never be allowed to walk out of here with stolen goods, not ever. She’d know it too, use it as a weakness against him and accuse him of gross hypocrisy. As it was, he couldn’t leave himself any opportunity to be wheedled out of his anger; what if Buffy used it as an excuse to stop saying she loved him?

With that frightening thought in mind, Spike tried to think of another way out. He had fifty dollars left, most of which was pigeonholed for blood and smokes, but, fuck it, he could go without. Maybe Buffy would get a clue and make Angel pay up for all the heartache he’d given her over the years, enough that she’d feel like sharing. Dawn was on two bottles at eighteen so that was, what, thirty-six, and his gel was cheap. And he could cover fried chicken and a drink. It wasn’t like Buffy’s sis was selfish when it really came down to it, so the guilt trip would probably be a lesson in itself. He hoped.

“Best pay for this stuff before we go, though, yeah?” he said, committing within seconds, steering Dawn towards the cash desk. God, he hoped he knew what he was doing. “Dunno why you couldn’t use a basket if you felt like having your hands free, but best pay before you forget. Here, pop that in as well.” Ostentatiously he tossed his gel up into the air, letting it crash into the treasure trove of Dawn’s bag – which sounded like it had a little more in it than two bottles of hair goop. Oh, buggering hell, he hoped this would be all right.

It took a moment for Dawn to cotton on to where he was shoving her. Not enough that he set off the chip, but enough for her to blush bright red. “Spike,” she whispered, as if he hadn’t got it, “I can’t afford… I was gonna…”

She was doing well at least at making him angry; how fucking stupid did she think he was? At least one icy glare shut her up, and she took exactly his meaning when he said, “No need to get into debt over bits like this; best I treat you, innit?”

At last Dawn's brain caught up with her mouth, and she scurried to match his stride across the floor. “No, Spike, it doesn’t matter,” she started saying, guilt really kicking in. (They were almost fun to play with, soulful types.) “You don’t have to spend your money – I don’t need… I’ve got eleven fifty; I can owe you the rest – I’ll get you blood and stuff!”

She shut up when they reached the cashier, as he pulled out the last of his cash and she had to concentrate on her trembling hand as it set on the counter her shampoo and conditioner and the hair gel, then a cheap, infantile eyeshadow set and nail polish that really wouldn’t suit her, silver mascara.

He watched the numbers ring up; they were going to need Dawn’s money for lunch. Another plan turned to shit in his hands this was.

* * *

“So why’d you do it?” Spike broached when they’d finally left the store, settled down in the disturbingly bright but underground food court, got some chicken to share, beans, fries, a Dr. Pepper and a Mountain Dew – because that made it cheaper, apparently. He’d thought about making Dawn buy him hot wings at the one-fifty premium, but mostly what he wanted was a beer and a couple of pints from an open vein, so it seemed petty to upgrade something that would never substitute.

The shock was starting to wear off Dawn’s face now, but it left behind a sullen expression that didn’t usually get aimed at him. “Does it matter?” she asked, picking at chicken skin with her spork. “I didn’t even steal anything; I’m crime free.”

“Yeah,” Spike replied, trying to tune out the inane chatter that filled the air around them. “Because you’ve _never_ done this before.” Again, how stupid did she think he was? “Pull the other one, bit.”

“For your information,” she declared, bristling, jabbing her chicken harder, tearing some off onto her tines, “and not that you notice or care, but I’ve been getting _better_. Your intervention’s a little late.”

“The hell is _that_ supposed to mean?” he asked, frustrated. He forgot this one could be as bad as the other Summers sometimes. What was he supposed to have known? To have guessed? To have divined from her gestures over the formica? He was only one vampire, for Christ’s sake.

Apparently this wasn’t enough for Dawn. “It _means_ ,” she spat, heading down the tried and tested route of taking things out on him, “that while you’re upstairs boning my _sister_ , my life still goes on.”

“Oh.” Well, at least she hadn’t figured out the downstairs bit. Not that that would appease Buffy. “You…”

“There was – _squeaking_ ,” Dawn hissed, sounding less scandalised and more like this was the only ammunition she had.

One of the marvels of lacking a soul was that Spike didn’t really care. In the end, if things got too difficult or too complicated, he didn’t have to bother and it would wash over him, forgotten. “Well…” Fuck it; he refused to care about this, so told her, “Them’s the breaks, innit?” He loved Dawn, he did – he thought he did and most of the time it made sense – but he wasn’t about to give up Buffy for her, not when they weren’t doing any harm. It really didn’t work like that. “Should’ve nicked yourself some earplugs.”

Slumping in her chair, Dawn slurped on her Dr. Pepper, no doubt trying to emulsify some of the grease from the chicken. “So that’s how it is, huh?” she asked afterwards, not looking up. “She’s the one you’re in love with, so she’s your priority.”

“And again – what is it you’re on about now?” Spike asked, giving in to the lemon-lime fizz of his own drink but otherwise not rising to the bait. God, he hated Mountain Dew.

Not quite as much as he hated Dawn’s patented teenage shrug, however. “It’s pretty obvious,” she said. “I knew when she came back that things were gonna be different, but now you’re so caught up in her – it’s disgusting.” Well, that was uncalled for. “When she was in the hospital you didn’t even…” She sneered, curling her lip.

“What?” Spike wasn’t about to let her trail off. He thumped his cup on the table instead, so she could recognise he was irritated. “You’re narked ‘cause I stayed with her, instead of running off with you?” Please; someone save him. “You had Willow at home. Tara too, I’d wager; don’t tell me you –”

“But I wanted to talk to _you_!” Dawn insisted, finally looking up, her expression a mixture of stubbornness and blame. “I mean, sure, send me home with the person who put _me_ in the hospital the last time, what a great solution! Obviously she knows what it’s like to worry about Buffy – oh, no, wait, she spent most of the time she was dead planning to bring her back to _life_.” Shaking her head, Dawn snorted, disturbingly bitter.

It was hard to remember sometimes that Dawn wasn’t just a little California girl. Even though the look of her screamed mall rat, with her clean blue jeans, denim jacket (another reason he was glad he hadn’t bought one), her straight long hair, all at home on the red plastic seat, he had to remember that this girl had known her mother die and watched her sister kill herself – had probably imagined herself dying on more than one occasion. She could be bloody marvellous.

And yet, Spike wasn’t able to resist the urge to tell her, “Dawn, from the bottom of my unbeating heart – grow up.” Even when it made her flinch, drop her eyes back down to her chicken like he’d raised a fist. “Look,” he tried, keeping his tone as friendly as he could. He did love her, after all. “I don’t want to tell you this and, frankly, I shouldn’t bloody have to. If things were right, you’d be free to pout and stomp your feet all you want, not lift a finger till college when you could leap head first into the big wide world.” Where was he going with this – oh, right… “But sometimes life don’t work that way.” And didn’t he know it. “You want to talk priorities, well you’re Buffy’s number one. She’s out there right now trying to get you both some money so _you_ can have it easier. And here you are, you’re your own number one. That’s two whole people you’ve got looking out for you.”

“But…” Dawn began, poking her chicken again but trailing off pretty quick.

“Not to mention,” Spike continued, picking up his drink again to gesture. Christ, he wanted a fag; this bloody country had gone to the dogs. “You’ve got me and the Scoobies and all your teachers in school – and don’t think I’ve forgotten that the bell ain’t struck three yet – we’re all keeping an eye out for you, telling you what’s what.”

Squirming, Dawn still tried to protest, “But Buffy…”

“Oh yeah.” He snorted. “She’s got the Scoobies too, but they’ve all up against the same issues she’s got. Red’s not made it out of school; heaven knows how Harris convinced anyone he’s good with his hands; none of them have got the time for each other. And now that Watcher of hers has buggered off she’s working herself to the bone, trying to keep the wolves at bay and the black dog and all.” Spike didn’t mean to get so upset about this, but it was getting to him now. “If _I_ don’t keep an eye on her,” he wondered, part of him hoping for an answer, “who else’ll keep her alive? Tell me that one, Dawn. Because I have a few problems these days telling when she’s up to the task and when she’s not.”

“But…” Dawn said again, like it was her favourite word in the world. Her tone was different this time, though, less whiny. More disbelieving. “But you’ve noticed she’s happier, right?”

Spike looked up, meeting Dawn’s eyes across the table. She looked as confused as he felt. Where was she getting her information, he wondered. All his mind could recall was the sight of one Slayer at his cemetery gate, slumping and sobbing in pain and weariness. Maybe a part of that was due to the way she’d just walked out on him, but it would be foolish, admission of love or no, to assume that was the only cause. The version of Buffy’s heart he’d inherited, what she’d said he’d inherited in any case, it didn’t work that way. “Eh?”

“I’m just saying,” Dawn dismissed, like she wished she hadn’t brought it up. “Since after Willow’s memory spell, I figure since you two started whatever, she’s been acting more like she’s real.” This was the point when she gave in and picked up her chicken with her fingers. “She’s not been like Chuckles the Clown or anything,” she explained between bites, apparently trying to diminish her authority as a source. “And how the hell would I know if the two are related – but I’m pretty sure she doesn’t need you worrying about her 24/7.” She finished with by lowering her voice, pulling the last scrap of skin off a bone and muttering, “She doesn’t worry about _you_ half as much…”

“Oh, she worries,” he informed her, taking another mouthful of his drink. About whether he was evil, whether he was good, whether he was corrupting her, whether he cared what she thought, whether he trusted her, whether he loved her – he could see the worries clear as day. “Just not about what you’d be expecting, is all.”

Dawn rolled her eyes. As she started on her fries, Spike figured they were finally back on neutral ground.

“So, go on then,” he tried to get them back on track, a little touched by the idea of a fifteen-year-old looking out for his love life, a little disturbed. “When did it all start, the thieving? You been sitting on these rants for long?” Spike decided it was time he got his fair share of the chicken, unnecessary expense though it was. And going cold.

“It was before,” Dawn began, begrudgingly. She sighed, shaking her head, as if she couldn’t even remember the reason. Spike could understand that: every past was a different country, but that time was on a different continent. “I don’t even know…” More Dr. Pepper, like that would solve it. “It was something I hadn’t done before, you know, something the monks hadn’t decided I did – like, the opposite of chess club.” She looked up, appealing to him for some appellation of cool. “I mean, come on! Geek, much? Why couldn’t twelve-year-old me learn guitar or take drama class or… Anyway.” The sad thing was, they’d had some good games over the summer, when he’d been pissed enough to forget he usually claimed ignorance of the rules and she’d been so bored that she’d turned off the TV. She had the killer instinct and the patience, whether the monks gave it her or not. “I think, also, maybe…”

Her gaze fell away. “What?” Spike coaxed.

“I guess I figured,” Dawn explained, hesitantly. “if I faded away, you know? If I got destroyed or whatever – then, even if people forgot I existed, well, I’d still have their stuff. So they couldn’t forget me, not entirely.” One particularly floppy chip was waved in a gesture. “It… Didn’t really make sense.”

His poor, miserable, made-up girl… What was he supposed to say to that? “What about the shops, though, niblet?” he tried, keeping his voice gentle, if only to encourage her to stay with him, look up instead of down at her ketchup, the smear of it on the table. “Why did you start doing that?” He glanced down at his bag, the tat and the posh shampoo his jacket was currently sharing real estate with. Was there any reason to it? And how the hell was he going to explain it to Buffy, if – if not when – she sussed it out? “You wouldn’t be caught dead in that mascara.” And, bloody hell, Spike _knew_ that, because they’d made funeral plans.

Frowning, Dawn just shrugged. She seemed to be getting angry again, just as defensive as before, but it fizzled out into not very much at all. “Look, I don’t know, all right?” she snapped, slouching lower in the fixed chair so her legs shoved past his under the table. Then she looked up to glare, obstinately. “Because I could?” she suggested. “Because I was bored? Because the shampoo Buffy buys makes my scalp flake? Why do _you_ do it?”

“Because I’m a bad, rude man,” the answer tripped off Spike's tongue before he could even think about it. Even as his stomach sank. “Which you shouldn’t try –”

“But maybe I’m a bad, rude woman,” Dawn interrupted, jutting out her chin. “You don’t know.”

Fuck, but he did know, didn’t he? He’d already made it when he’d died: had a dying mum and a father overseas, but he’d sold the Staffordshire residence with the money well-invested for another house later on. Dawn, on the other hand, still had her whole life ahead of her, and needed that bloody school of hers to say that she could live it. “Dawn, listen to me,” Spike tried to tell her, tried to be serious. He could do this, couldn’t he? Be a good influence on her? It didn’t feel like it should be his job, but he didn’t want her rotting in a prison cell and there weren’t many other options. “I know you’ve been through a tough time. I know the world is full of wankers.” She was listening, he thought. He hoped. “But if you fuck up now, you’re gonna feel it for years. Every move you make –” He plotted it out across the table, stabbing his index finger at two-inch intervals. “– that affects tomorrow and the next day and the next year. If you don’t think about that, pet, don’t plan for it, then your future’s had it. Gone.”

And didn’t he know it. His whole life had flashed before his eyes, watching Buffy walk out of that crypt door. Halfway down the first bottle of whiskey he’d told himself he was never allowed to forget, if she came back – even if she didn’t and he had to fight for her. It had been a massive practical joke when she’d put the grenade in his hand, but he’d seen it, what he’d done. How he’d brought himself to the point where all his stuff needed to be blown up.

So there would be no forgetting about the future. Not if he could help it. And especially not from Dawn.

It looked like what he was saying was possibly starting to sink in. The problem was, as usual with Dawn, the moment he’d manage to impart the slightest hint of wisdom she turned around and pushed him for that little bit more. “But what am I supposed to _do_ , Spike?” she asked, slumping in her chair. “Go to school and burn magnesium? Write a presentation on how Juliet is _feeling?_ What about what I’m feeling?” Her eyes, already too big for one little girl were getting saucer-like now, and Spike couldn’t help his heart breaking for her. “Everyone around me dies or leaves or forgets I exist… And, and what if Warren had shot Buffy dead? No one’s talking about it, but I don’t – what would we have done? How would we have gotten going again?”

At the thought of it, Spike had to shut his eyes, because he didn’t want to see it. The sight of her looking dead on the ground had been nothing like the last time. Then he had almost known it was coming, got the hint that Buffy was entertaining the thought and prepared himself, if only infinitesimally. At her party, on the other hand, all he’d seen was her walk away – not gone after her because he’d been too busy arguing. There hadn’t been the pain to dull his senses, just the knowledge that he hadn’t gone after her and by the time he’d heard the gunshot it had been too late to get out of the house in time. And she’d been there, lying on the lawn, smelling of blood, eyes blank when she’d looked at his face, lips pursed in confused surprise…

He didn’t want to see it, but he was seeing it anyway, feeling the fear that she wasn’t with him. The thought that he wouldn’t know what was happening if anything went wrong in LA, it terrified him, but he knew he had to shake it off. Buffy wouldn’t stand to have him guard her side at all times, it just wasn’t possible.

“You can’t think like that,” Spike forced himself to say, opening his eyes in an attempt to convince himself, convince Dawn. “We keep going because we keep going, don’t look back.” Her stubborn expression was pinning him down again, but he was bigger and badder than her and could do stubborn like she wouldn’t believe. “And _you_ don’t do bullshit like nicking bloody Maybelline…”

“But I _hate_ it at school,” Dawn interrupted, clenching her drink and taking them right back full circle, it felt like. “I _hate_ it, the way people look at me. They all think I’m weird because my mom’s dead and they don’t even know about Buffy, apart from getting the memo she’s weird too. The teachers act like they’re sympathetic, but they don’t really know what they’re talking about, and none of them will tell me why I’m supposed to _care_.”

“You know why you should care,” Spike bit out, because they’d been over this again and again. “Because if you don’t, they’ll take you away and dump you somewhere to rot.” Maybe he over-identified with this particular predicament, but he didn’t understand why Dawn didn’t get it. “Maybe you’d see Buffy at the weekends, maybe you’d be too far away; maybe they’d find your dad and he’d take you to Spain.” God only knew if he was getting somewhere this time, but Spike tried like he always tried, “Come on, pet; I’m supposed to be the one malfunctioning in the foresight department. Don’t show me up.”

A study in teenage angst and genuine misery, Dawn poked at her rapidly cooling chicken. “Can we…” she said, like she wanted nothing more than this whole episode of her life to be over. “Can we go home and listen to those CDs you bought for me?”

Nicked for her, more like, but that couldn’t really happen again, could it? “The Pistols?” he asked back, trying to remember what it had actually been that he’d given her. Maybe his stuff wasn’t entirely lost after all. “Always, niblet.” First time that day, he grinned.

* * *

“So, basically, what you’re saying is, if I don’t give a shit and do something with my life, I’m gonna take a load of drugs, kill my girlfriend or whoever, maybe, and then OD myself.”

“That’s about the size of it, yeah.”

By the time they got home, Spike wasn’t much in the mood to continue playing the responsible adult. Dawn seemed to be feeling better about things, not least because he’d let her have one of Willow’s weak party beers out of the fridge. The witch herself was out, probably at the library or something, and as far as Spike was concerned one beer wasn’t going to do the girl any harm. Probably it was still illegal, but unlike daylight robbery it was unlikely to get the both of them banged up.

Besides, drinking alone was fucking miserable. Even and especially on the third go round of _Never Mind the Bollocks_.

“You so thought you and Dru were, like, Sid and Nancy mark two, didn’t you?” the girl herself asked, halfway through _Seventeen_ , a guileless expression on her face. That meant she was mocking him on the inside. “I bet you had the death pact and everything.”

Spike shrugged, unashamed, told her, “We had the death pact long before they did.” Poor old Sid – he could barely play the bass and no one wanted him for that. Even if Nancy had been as crackers as everyone said, it probably made a nice change having her around. He knew how that felt; he remembered being certain there was no point to unliving without Dru. He must have been so young… “Whole idea was old hat by ’79.”

“OK,” Dawn replied, raising an eyebrow. She thought he was full of shit, but that wasn’t anything new. The nice thing about Dawn was that, even so, she was still willing to listen. It had always been the same, including when he’d been trying to prove he could unlive without Buffy. Mostly failing. “So, what does that make you now, then?” his Dawn continued. “Now you’re, like, obsolescent?”

“Obsolete,” Spike corrected automatically, before he’d fully acknowledged what she’d said. “And, oi,” he added, insulted when he caught on. “Watch your mouth.”

“What?” she replied, eyes a little bright from the alcohol, staring down his glare. God, these Summerses sozzled easily. “You had a pact. The conditions might as well have been fulfilled, but you’re still here.”

She might as well have asked him what was the meaning of life, for all she seemed to be projecting onto him. Part of him was very tempted to answer, ‘42’. Nonetheless, he resisted. “Yeah, well,” he said, feeling slightly uncomfortable. “Got a new purpose now.”

“Oh, come _on_ ,” Dawn sneered, rocking back on the sofa. Maybe drunk Dawn wasn’t quite the companion he’d hoped her to be. “It can’t be _Buffy_ ; don’t make me puke.”

At some point or other, she was actually going to let this go, and that would be a very happy day indeed. “What is it you actually expect me to say?”

“Nothing,” Dawn replied, rolling her eyes. “What do I know?” She sighed, playing with the hair behind her head. “It just seems to me,” she threw out, passive-aggressive to the max, “that it’s gotta give you a real warped sense of perspective to make one person so important to you.”

“Yeah, well,” Spike replied, annoyed as he knocked back the last of whatever beer he was on now. None of them could tell the difference about him and Buffy, could they, how he was trying to be more than her pet demon? “Says the girl who’d probably be dead if her sister didn’t think she was worth her own life.”

For a moment, Dawn frowned, like she couldn’t work out whether he’d really hurt her or not with that remark. For a moment Spike wasn’t quite sure either, and wished he could take it back.

The mood of the room chilled, even as _Anarchy_ started up. Eventually Dawn spoke, dark and quiet. “I know you think I’m ungrateful,” she said, “but I get it, OK? Buffy’s a freaking rock star. You don’t need to go on about it all the time.”

“You’re the one who brought it up,” he replied, apparently unable to control his mouth. And her glare was making him angry, too fucking rude for her own good. Where did she get off telling him what to think or feel? Where did all of them get off? “Yes, I’m in love with your sister – what d’you want me to say?” He snapped at her, “Love you too, even when you’re being the daft cow you are now – probably would die for you if I had to – but can we not talk about it, because I’d rather not think about either of you dying today, thank you very much.”

Now, of course, Dawn was looking away from him, gulping down what could well be a lump in her throat. He’d at least managed to shut her up, but he still wished he could control his outbursts of this sort of thing. They never went particularly well.

Luckily, the phone rang just then, and Dawn immediately leapt off the sofa to go and answer it.

It wouldn’t be Buffy, Spike knew, so he tried not to pay attention. It would be one Dawn’s girly mates, whatever she said about not having any. She’d have been missed at school, so they’d be calling for the story of her great day off – or some suitably made-up version. It was too early for Buffy to call in, if she was even going to remember. He was certain she’d leave it until everything had been sorted out, until she was settled for the evening in the Hyperion, not now.

Maybe he’d turn on the TV, Spike thought; have a gander at what was happening in the world. Maybe he’d have a snooze. Dawn would be a while and he didn’t have much else to do. He wouldn’t wonder what Buffy was doing right now, because there was no point.

“Hello?” As it was, when Dawn answered the phone, there was a remarkable lack of squealing. His ears pricked up. “What?” Her face was growing worried and his heart sank, imagining. “Are you OK?” She was meeting his eyes now, across the room; he was already on his feet.

Feeling sick, he asked, “Who is it?”

“It’s Buffy,” Dawn replied, all of her previous venom completely gone from the name. He was across the room in two strides. _Not again. Someone give the girl a break._ “Something’s wrong.”


	9. Don't Forget Today's Trash Day.

When Buffy left the house, she was distracted by the nagging feeling that she’d forgotten something with Spike. The result was that she failed to notice it wasn’t only Kate who was sitting in her car. As she opened the passenger door and climbed inside, it suddenly became very obvious that the backseat was occupied. Not only that, but it was occupied by two people she’d mostly been expecting to vanish away into the night.

“Uh…” she began, looking back, nonplussed. “Did the government decide you have to carpool now?”

A little cramped with all their tallness, Riley and Sam smiled awkwardly at her, papers in their hands. “We, um, needed to get caught up on what’s been happening with the case,” Sam explained, gesturing with her manila folder.

“We were gonna go over it last night,” Riley added –

– only for Kate to cut in, “But I basically blew them off to go sleep.” Not looking entirely refreshed, she turned the ignition and yanked her seatbelt on with a few short snaps, then glanced Buffy’s way before pulling out into the road. “They didn’t want to go over everything without us around for questions, so I said they could do it in the car.”

“Oh,” was all Buffy said, looking back out of the windscreen to watch Revello Drive disappear underneath them. She couldn’t quite work out whether she was being apologised to or not, nor whether this was something where she felt like she needed an apology. She’d been expecting the drive to be pretty awkward, what with it three whole hours of time she and Kate would have had to fill with conversation, but now there was going to be shoptalk. Riley and Sam shoptalk, which meant acronyms.

Thankfully, not understanding much of what anyone was saying meant that Buffy could mostly tune out the conversation and let it lull her into an appreciation of the countryside, which made a change from her usual surroundings, even over the side of the highway. It was hard to remember sometimes that there was still a whole world out there beyond Sunnydale – and even beyond LA. They’d travelled quite a lot when she was younger, but it had been a while since she’d thought about anywhere much beyond California. Giles was over in England, of course, but in her head that was mostly the same as Giles’ apartment, on a larger scale with some rain falling outside. It didn’t really seem like another country.

She should ask Spike about it, maybe. Maybe she should have asked him the night before, instead of talking all the nonsense she’d actually come out with.

 

_”I love your jewellery too.”_

_Spike was kissing her after that, so neither of them had to respond to her weird declaration. It seemed like the most banal thing to say, especially after she’d just told him, pretty much, that she thought about him every time she shopped for clothes and accessories these days. If he hadn’t worked it out before, he had to know that she imagined him taking things off of her, how they’d look in isolation when her outfit was being deconstructed. But it was too much to then tell him, on top of that, that she considered his wardrobe in much of the same way. How much of a nympho was she?_

_All the same, it was nice to have a different way of holding his head down to hers, and she liked the feel of the slippery metal links on her skin – because she was, as she had just established, a nympho. “Mmm,” she said as their mouths parted, apparently actually not quite ready to leave this topic. Even with him steady right over her, weight on his elbows and her caught between them, pinned where his cock poked into her stomach, she was slipping her fingers around his necklace, exploring the curve of his neck. “Why did you start wearing it?”_

_It wasn’t only the necklace, was it? He had rings as well, only one today, which had already been driving her absolutely wild. By the smirk on his face, he knew it too._

_“Think you’ve answered your own question,” he said enigmatically, his proximity enough that she could watch every muscle twitch as he raised his eyebrows._

_She couldn’t accept that answer, though, because he couldn’t have known… “What made you think I would like it?”_

_Sometimes she wondered what kind of person she actually was. Always Spike seemed to read her so well, and yet every time he showed her something new that she loved, it surprised her. It made her think that she likely had no way of knowing what she was really like and that – that was worrying. Was she a good person? She really wanted to be, but how was she supposed to know? How would she know if she even had the right criteria?_

_As it was, Spike left her even more confused. “Seen you wearing your bling on patrol,” he said, slumping back to her side with one leg and arm still hooked across her. “Gets you hot,” he added, “makes you powerful.” Now he was playing with her own chain again, still draped down her sternum – and, yeah, maybe he had a point. Certain that he did, he smirked and asked her, “Who wouldn’t want a piece of that?”_

_But surely that couldn’t be how attraction worked? Buffy couldn’t believe it was, even if the sight of his fingers coiled in gold made them seem even more erotic than usual. Her taste in accessories had nothing to do with her taste in men. Case in point, Spike’s outfits, which, OK, were well put-together for what they were, but hardly in line with her own standards for men’s fashion. “Who exactly do you think I am?” she asked hesitantly, a little worried about the answer._

_She probably should have expected the answer she got anyway. “An undersexed vampire slayer who deserves more shiny things in life.” He winked at her, but then challenged, “What do you think of me?”_

_Thinking rationally, Buffy was certain the ‘undersexed’ part had to be a joke. And yet, looking into his eyes while they lay in her big, comfy bed, all she could see was yearning dissatisfaction, discontent. Maybe – he was as incomplete as her. “An undersexed vampire,” she said, accepting, using his vocabulary of choice and wishing she could make him feel like she gave him enough for when one of them wasn’t around. “Who deserves…” What was it that looked best on him? If she had a yen for shiny things, which it was possible that she did, then what was the equivalent? All right, he’d been flippant, but the answer seemed obvious the moment her silence made his face cloud over. “Who deserves – happiness.” And, boy, did she want a piece of that._

_Whether she could get them anywhere close? That was a question for another day._

 

“Buffy?” Kate was asking then, pulling her back into the conversation in the car. “You’ve seen what’s been going on down in Sunnydale; you got an opinion on this?”

Oh yeah, Buffy remembered, blinking and looking back to the other inhabitants of the car. Work stuff. Work stuff that engaged her brain. She had that these days.

* * *

Anya had warned her how Brian’s lawyers were well known for taking demon clients, but Buffy was trying not to let that worry her. She tried even harder as they pulled up outside the swanky, shiny office building. OK, so maybe they were in the heart of the financial district, the entrance removed from the road and a nice stone sign telling her _Wolfram and Hart_ like it meant something, but she wasn’t intimidated. Even if the place did cater to demons, that didn’t mean that Brian was one or that he even knew about them. Perhaps it made her less intimidated, actually, because if there were demons she could always beat them up. They might even recognise her. Be afraid.

She and Kate had arranged to meet at Angel’s hotel after everything was done, even though Kate had made a face like she didn’t really want to do that. Buffy wasn’t quite sure what that meant, but she was ignoring it for the time being, like the way she was ignoring how nervous Kate looked around the _Wolfram and Hart_ sign. She kept on ignoring it as she re-confirmed and left the car, waving before she headed into the big glass box of likely doom.

As she walked through the lobby, Buffy tried not to be impressed. She looked around, trying to get the lay of the land, but mostly all she saw was money. The floor was so clean, not a speck of dust around the legs of the waiting couches – and that took time, attention, more than the average establishment bothered with. They never got the floor so clean in the half-hour they had at the end of the Doublemeat day. And the upholstery, that was all new; had to have been replaced less than a year ago, would probably be replaced in less than a year as well. The colours were strong, the fibres vacuumed, not at all like her furniture at home, which was getting drabber and drabber, even with relatively little use.

The receptionist, also, he had to be well paid. She could tell as she approached the desk. His suit was so nice – not _really_ expensive-nice, but well-made and well-cut. His hair was cut nicely too, and he had enough money in the bank that he was still smiling, even as the client in front of him was speaking in a really rude tone.

“You will show me to Miss Morgan,” he was saying. From the back of him she could tell he was short, British, almost familiar. His voice was finely edged, like he was having a very bad day, but that was no excuse, Buffy didn’t think. She couldn’t quite tell why he seemed familiar. Was he a Watcher? An ex-Watcher? He was standing firmly, like he could hold his own in a fight, but Buffy knew she couldn’t assume that every British guy she met was from the Council. She’d almost terrorised that coffee-shop owner that time…

“I’m sorry, sir,” the receptionist was saying, seriously professional. The idea that Brian was the sort of guy who could afford this place was starting to freak her out. “Ms. Morgan’s booked out for the rest of the day. If you would like to make an – ” That got him the slam of a hand on the desk, but he didn’t even flinch. Buffy did. “Now, sir, please…”

The man did not please, apparently. “You will telephone Miss Morgan,” he said, voice even more edged than before, “and tell her that Captain Holtz is here to see her. Is that clear?”

 _Holtz…?_ Buffy had forgotten the name, and apparently what the back of his head looked like, but now it was coming back to her. It was him: short, British… David? Devon? _Daniel._ She would recognise him the moment he turned around – and he her, she presumed, even though she had a feeling she didn’t want him to do that. Not after the whole blood-swapping business that had happened with Angel when they’d been here the last time.

It seemed like most of his attention was fixed on the receptionist, who was indeed now phoning the woman Daniel wanted to see. “Yes,” he was saying, nodding at the receiver. “I understand. Of course.” And then the call ended and he had his smile back on his face, eyes not even drifting to Buffy where she stood, a few feet away. “Thank you for your patience, Captain Holtz,” he said, warmly gesturing Daniel towards the waiting area. “Ms. Morgan is currently detained, but she wants me to let you know how important your visit is to her; she hopes it’s not too much of an inconvenience to ask you to wait for a few minutes.” The man was coming out from behind the desk now, turning Daniel away from Buffy even more. “I’m to assist you in any way I can; would you care for some refreshment?”

“No, thank you,” Daniel was saying stiffly as they walked away. Buffy approached the desk, acting cool, but even so she found it a little strange. Whatever else he’d been, Daniel had at least been cordial when she’d met him. And observant, too. Now he seemed lost in his own world.

The receptionist, no matter his pay grade, seemed to have only got the memo about Holtz being violently dangerous. “Are you sure?” he asked, apparently striving for contentment. “I could bring you some coffee?” Daniel shook his head, bowing it as he sat down. “Or – tea?” the receptionist tried, as if he’d just realised this might be the answer. “Would you like some tea?”

This, for some reason, was enough to make Daniel snap. “No, I would not like any _tea_ ,” he barked, as if this was the most hated word in his vocabulary. Buffy jumped and turned back to the desk, not letting him see her face as she listened to the rest of his rant. “Nor any other concoction you might presume I would enjoy. I care not for your sweets nor your syrupsn or your bubbling monstrosities – if you must bring me something, may it be a glass of pale ale, or else water, nothing more. But I would far rather you left me alone.”

Well, Buffy thought; someone wasn’t happy with the modern world, were they?

With an, “Of course, sir, absolutely,” the receptionist very quickly reappeared behind the desk, looking, for the first time, flustered. As his embarrassed blush set of his red hair, Buffy realised that he could only be around her age, if not younger, which suddenly seemed quite unfair. She didn’t think she’d be cut out for the same sort of job, but it was yet another reminder that her generation was quickly streaking away from her, like Xander’s shiny car and Willow’s increasingly unintelligible textbooks.

Still, that wasn’t something to worry about right now. “Hi!” she said brightly, trying to act like she belonged.

The receptionist jumped. “Oh, gosh, I’m sorry…” he began, before he seemed to think better of letting her know that he hadn’t realised she was there. “How can I help you?”

“I’ve got an appointment with Brian Goldstein?” she replied, and immediately the name was being tapped into a computer. Suddenly thinking that she was probably meant to have the lawyer’s name, like the elusive Ms. Morgan, Buffy then explained, “He’s not a lawyer or anything, but he’s the guy I’m meeting; I don’t know who…”

“That’s no problem at all, Ms. Summers,” the receptionist was then saying, smile filling his face once more and a certain blankness his eyes. Everything back under control. He looked older. “If you take the elevator to the sixth floor,” he directed, pointing to a row of them on the far wall, “then Callie at the desk will show you through.”

Clearly she wasn’t important enough for coffee, Buffy thought as she thanked him and walked away. But that didn’t matter; she was jittery enough as it was.

Shaking off the non-encounter with Daniel, and reminding herself to tell Angel about it later, Buffy called the elevator and took it on her own. It was again expensive in that way that only the moneyed part of LA could be – silent, clean and somehow elegant for a moving box – and it did indeed take her to Callie, who was even more efficient than the receptionist guy. Her smile and manner as they walked through corridors wasn’t only professional but polished to a warm shine: she said something that made Buffy laugh, but no matter how hard she tried, later, Buffy couldn’t remember what it was. Her outfit made Buffy feel like she was wearing rags.

Very soon they had arrived at a meeting room and Callie was introducing her, again as Ms. Summers, before vanishing and leaving Buffy standing awkwardly in the doorway, Brian and the lawyer guy whose name she’d already forgotten still in their seats.

Brian, who had to be Brian, was the first one out of his chair, coming over to shake her hand. Buffy wasn’t quite sure what she’d been expecting from him, but at that moment, in the overwhelmingly plush surroundings, it was a stunning relief to find out that he was who he was. Because, what he turned out to be was a fairly Joe Average middle-aged man. He had a beaten-up brown leather jacket and beige chinos, bad shoes and single-tone dark hair that didn’t quite match the grey coming in on his eyebrows. His fingernails, she noticed as she shook his hand, were neat and short – but had the disconcerting appearance like he’d cut them with a toenail clipper, all squared straight at the end of his fingers with two unfiled triangles of white around the curve of his pink thumbnail.

“Hi, nice to meet you,” he said, almost putting her at ease as he smiled actually genuinely, nervously. He had an accent like Ross in the pilot of _Friends_ , or something like that. New York or New Jersey, maybe, but mostly more contrasting with the California standard she’d been expecting. “I can’t believe I saw your picture all that time and we never met face-to-face. I’m Brian.”

“Buffy,” she replied finishing the handshake. On her best, I-want-your-money behaviour, she smiled back and added, “I think Mom wanted you all to herself.” Was that flattering? Hopefully that was flattering. “When you went out that time she told us some story about you guys bonding over a sale in the gallery. Like you’d only just met.”

It mostly seemed to just surprise him. “She told you about – hunh.” He looked taken aback, blinking beneath his bushy man-eyebrows. Not that he was bad looking, really; he wasn’t even that out of shape, stomach more flat than round underneath his tucked-in grey button-down, which was as wrinkled as her shirt was. “That was it, how we met,” Brian explained and Buffy looked up again, surprised. “I was trying to sell her… But I didn’t know Joycie –”

“Ahem,” Brian’s attorney interrupted, just when Buffy was getting interested. He had one eye on his ultra-glam Omega-maybe watch and Buffy assumed he had to be bored, because there was no way a little extra time chitchatting would work out badly for his paycheque. “Shall we get down to business?” he requested all the same.

“Sure,” Brian agreed, scratching at the stubble behind his jaw. It brought Buffy’s attention to a strange scar he had there, not quite concealed, like a cobweb of white on his neck. Quite suddenly she remembered the main reason she was meant to be cautious while in the building, which wasn’t the aggressively expensive décor and shoes on the lawyer-guy’s feet. It was Brian, comfy Brian, and the mark that looked a little like a burn, or some sort of ritual marking. The sort of thing you picked up by dealing with demons.

What did she know about this guy? Buffy tried to remember as the lawyer started recapping his own version of events. He ran an art gallery, or had run, anyway, so it seemed as the attorney started using the past tense and mentioned something about a further sale later on. He’d done whatever in small-town Sunnydale, which was hardly what anyone would call a sensible business decision – what market for art was there, in a one-Starbucks, two-independent-wannabe-Starbuckses town?

Why had Buffy never asked her mom about this? In all their conversations about demons, why had she never brought it up? The Sunnydale economy didn’t exactly thrive, and it certainly didn’t do what it did on a diet of pre-Columbian sculpture and ancient artefacts. Maybe there was more to the typical Sunnydalian than a short memory and a blasé attitude towards death, but Buffy couldn’t quite be sure where art came in for most of the human population. Giles and Anya had art lines at the Magic Box, and they seemed to do OK, but she was pretty certain even without the two days a week Anya was closed in the morning and open through the night that quite a lot of their trade came from demons.

“Given the nature of…” the lawyer was continuing, and Buffy tried to focus on the documents set in front of her, originals of the rumpled copies she had in her bag. They were written in legal gobbledygook, complicated enough that even Anya had only been able to get so far as to circle certain clauses and write three question marks next to them. Spike hadn’t been able to focus on all the fine print, which had been funny, but her laughing had made him pout and her distract them both from his reading of the other parts. On her own, she hadn’t really been able to work out what was going on.

Because of that, most of her hopes were pinned on Brian. If he was a decent guy, then presumably there wouldn’t be any problem, because it seemed to her like everything was straightforward: her mom had sold him her share, pretty much, but hadn’t been able to sign the final pieces of paperwork. It had to have been that way, because Buffy was pretty sure her mom wouldn’t have wanted to get romantically involved with someone she was still business partners with, even if it had only been one date.

If Brian wasn’t a decent guy, things would get more complicated. And difficult. And Buffy would likely have no way of dealing with that successfully, so she was clinging to the potential for decency for the moment, remembering the card and flowers he had sent after that one date. Hopefully that was an indicator of his general character, along with the fact that he and her mom had worked together for so long and she’d still gone out with him.

“… and we can see from clause 22.6…”

Of course, it was also true that her mom had had something of a blindspot when it came to guys, like Buffy had been telling Kate the other day. It didn’t really seem as though Brian was the number-one greatest choice available in the single, middle-aged man bracket – the outfit he was wearing really did include a lot of brown, and his posture next to the poser, late-twenties attorney was absolutely beta-male. Not that that couldn’t be a good thing. There were things to be said for reduced levels of testosterone, especially for mommas who’d got using to making dollars, Destiny’s Child independent woman style.

The problem was that he didn’t seem to have much idea about what was going on either – or, at least, that was what Buffy was getting from the looks he cast in her direction. It didn’t fill her with confidence.

Especially as the attorney affected a particularly bored tone. “So, what this means in real terms,” he seemed to conclude, his voice thick with disdain, it sounded like, for anyone who even hinted they might like a translation, “is that the new sale renders the former agreement void under paragraphs – ”

“Wait, what?” Buffy interrupted, drawing the slow blink of the attorney’s eyes up to hers. Her hands went slick on her chair arms, but for that moment she didn’t actually care. _Void?_ Had she heard that right? Did it mean what she thought it meant? “You’re not giving me the money?”

A few months ago – heck, a few weeks ago – she would have been willing to accept this. She might have even expected it. As it was now, today, she had given up what had been promising to become a very fun and relaxing exploration of what it meant to be in love after all this time, all to be driven to LA and made to feel small and insignificant. Now they were trying to tell her, what?

Right, well, that showed her Brian’s true colours didn’t it? Thank god her mom hadn’t got any more involved with _him_. After all this time, after what had happened, he was going to try and keep her mom’s money, everything she’d worked for. How _dare_ he?

Turning her cold, alpha-female (dammit) fury on him and his friendly, comfy-dad outfit, Buffy swore, the anger making her feel like herself, “You sonofabitch! After everything she did for you?”

Strangely, though, Brian wasn’t crowing, or mocking, or anything like that. He was frowning, apparently a little frozen by her outburst, before he looked down at his papers, shuffling through them quickly with his fingers. “What the hell…?” he said, like he still didn’t quite understand, before he was looking at his attorney with a slight tremble in his hands. “James, can we talk outside for a minute.”

 _By all means,_ the lawyer-guy’s hand gesture seemed to say, the light glinting on his watch again. He looked smug, like he’d just rigged a particularly difficult card game in Vegas, but he was following Brian out, leaving Buffy to stew on her own.

Her mind was blank as the whispering started, her heart still racing with anger. This wasn’t fair; it just wasn’t. This wasn’t why her mom had invested in her workplace. That had been to secure her future, their future, even when the insurance companies and the mortgage brokers sucked everything else dry, the way they had. This was – it was supposed to mean a _change_ , something better. What the hell was Buffy going to do?

And Brian – how was she supposed to remember Brian, the flowers guy? He’d been the one good thing about Joyce’s last few days, the reassurance that she’d had a good memory to go with her, even if she’d died alone. This couldn’t be happening.

_”When the hell did you decide that?”_

Suddenly, Brian’s voice was audible through the door. Buffy turned around, not even daring to hope.

_“Mr. Goldstein, it is my job to make sure that you, as my client, get the best –”_

_“As your client, I pay you to make sure I don’t get screwed over by some demon; I don’t pay you to rip off Joyce Summers’ daughters!”_

_“Now, please, the contract states –”_

_“I don’t give a damn what the contract states. The deal went through and you’re gonna tell me every red cent of…”_

Buffy refused to get her hopes up. This wasn’t the solution to all her problems, because it simply wasn’t. There were all the debts she’d been putting to one side, like the water bill; it was likely this money couldn’t do anything but fill in the leaks in her financial situation, let her pay Giles back and make her feel like she could talk to him like an equal again rather than a needy, begging dependent – afford to call him. It probably wouldn’t change her quality of life at all. Maybe her mental life. Maybe…

After a brief return to murmuring, James the lawyer came back inside the room. Brian was gone, it seemed, but this fact seemed not to faze his attorney in the slightest. Maybe it wasn’t just money here; maybe there was something they put in the coffee. “It seems,” he said, “that at Mr. Goldstein’s request we will have to adjourn our meeting for today and reconvene with new documentation in the near future. You’ll get written notification, of course.”

Picking up her bag from the floor, Buffy stood up and turned her back on the papers. “OK,” she said, not sure whether it was appropriate to smile. Her stomach was in knots. “Shall I…?” She gestured towards the door.

With a sigh that implied his superiors were not going to be happy, the lawyer held it open to let her go.

* * *

“Buffy!”

On wobbly legs, Buffy was leaving the front entrance when she heard her name being called. Still under the porch-like shade of the building’s overhang, she turned to see Brian standing over at the far end of the steps, slumped by a silver, bollard-like ashtray with a cigarette between his fingers. Apparently he was a smoker, on top of everything else. She wanted to list that as a negative, but knew that with Spike she wasn’t quite allowed to.

Part of her wanted to walk away, not see him again until the new pieces of paper came in the mail and she could be certain things would be all right. The larger part of her, though, knew that she should thank him for not being a creep. The nagging voice of it reminded her that she was supposed to be making friends, even if they weren’t her type. They didn’t need to be her type, especially since, in Brian’s case, that would mean her type was like her mom’s type, which wasn’t allowed to be true.

“Sorry,” he said as she approached, deflecting to the cigarette, which he stubbed out in the tray. “I’ve been giving up.”

“It’s OK,” she said, waving her hand. “My…” For a moment she meant to explain about Spike and the weird fetish she’d developed for the smell of tobacco, but she really didn’t have the words. It took another second for her to realise that that was also a completely inappropriate conversation topic. “Thanks,” she said instead, trying to get that part out of the way. “For what you did in there.”

Now he was waving her off, though he did it with a shrug. “It shouldn’t have been a problem,” he said. “If I could’ve got my head around it earlier, you wouldn’t have had to come all this way out of town.”

It was true, but Buffy shrugged, deciding to let it go. There was another question she knew she should ask him, even if she wasn’t quite sure how to put it. Curiosity was going to make her ask eventually, so she went with it, watching Brian’s expression in the afternoon sun. “So, do you work with demons often, or was that just a euphemism?”

Brian coughed once, then looked at her appraisingly. “How the hell…?” he began, confused, before he shook his head. “I was gonna ask if you wanted to go for coffee, catch up a little. Now I think we might have more to talk about. Obviously we’ll stay in public areas, walk instead of taking my car; I don’t want you to think…”

Then Buffy laughed, feeling the smile on her face. “Sounds good,” she said. To think that he actually thought about how not to seem creepy. Even if she could take him in a fight with about three fingers and a blindfold on, it was sweet.

“So, how’re you doing?” he asked as they started walking down the steps. “How’s Dawn?” Buffy tried not to stumble.


	10. That’s Where Even Your Best Political Minds Can Drop the Ball.

Coffee with Brian was a Starbucks on the way to the Hyperion, where he proved once again that his way of dealing with awkward moments was to talk right on through them. At the bar the barista took both their orders and before Buffy could reach for her purse he was saying, “Now, don’t go all Joycie on me here and make me split it. I dragged you all the way here for nothing; the least I can do is buy you a cup of coffee.”

Had her mom had principles about that sort of stuff? Buffy was fairly comfortable with having coffees bought for her and had relaxed her hand the moment she’d seen the look in his eyes, but as she actually listened to what he was saying she felt momentarily guilty. Especially in her recent situation, though, there just didn’t seem too much point in rejecting things that were freely offered, unless they were clearly bought with ill-gotten gains. (And apparently, she thought, remembering her birthday, she was willing to make exceptions for that on special occasions.)

It was true she didn’t want Spike buying Dawn stuff, but that was more about her own pride than anything else. Buffy liked to think that she made enough money that Dawn’s allowance could keep her happy on its own, even if she couldn’t go to the movies as much as her friends did or buy so many clothes.

What she didn’t want, though, was for Brian to think that she was any less whatever-quality-this-exemplified than her mom, so she smiled as though she was giving in. “OK,” she said, slightly begrudging. “You don’t have to – but thanks.”

It all seemed like a pointless act, really.

Conversation moved on as they took their seats, finding a small table towards the back of the busy coffee house, next to a feature wall painted an earthy terracotta brown. Buffy figured it was supposed to make her feel like the place was homey, not so much pretentious, but it didn’t quite work.

“So, are you still living in Sunnydale?” Brian asked, keeping one eye on they of the green aprons for when their order would be called.

“Sure,” Buffy replied, relaxing on her chair, not quite sure what he meant. “Where else were we gonna go?”

“I dunno.” Brian shrugged. “I thought when your dad came back he might’ve moved you all someplace.”

Genuinely surprised, Buffy laughed. What a quaint assumption that was. “Oh, our dad never came back,” she explained as Brian shook his head at her, startled. “He’s still out there living the dream or whatever.” That much she did know, after all: men might buy you things, but you sure as hell couldn’t depend on them. Or at least she knew _she_ couldn’t. The only certain way to survive was to find security on her own dime.

“Wow,” Brian responded, sounding shocked. “He is one grade-A asshole.” He seemed to say it before he realised who he was talking to and immediately tried to backpedal. “I mean – I shouldn’t have said that. I'm sorry, Buffy.”

She shrugged. All this stuff with her dad had been pretty passé for months now. “Eh, don’t mention it,” she told Brian, even if the reminder did bring her down a little. She didn’t remember her dad having asshole genes, but these days she seemed to gather more and more proof of it. It didn’t give her sleepless nights or anything, but it did make her wonder if her radar for this sort of stuff was defective – and whether she’d be able to recognise in herself if she was pulling any assholish behaviour she’d inherited.

“No, I shouldn’t have said it,” Brian repeated, possibly actually apologising for the reminder as well as the sentiment as he shook his head. “I shouldn’t talk about your dad; I don’t know him.” The way he said it made Buffy suspect his opinions went deeper than minor expletives. As he went up to the counter to retrieve their finished coffees, she wondered whether her mom had talked to him about all the things she’d never discussed with Buffy after the divorce – maybe some of them, if not everything.

It was kind of nice to think she might have had someone to talk to.

Returning with the coffees, Brian took his chair again and apparently wanted to reassure himself that she and Dawn hadn’t been completely abandoned. “Are you still keeping up with your training, at least, with that Rupert guy?”

She could see where this was going and really didn’t want it to go there, but she asked anyway, wanting to make sure. “Training?”

Now Brian shrugged, gesturing as he drank his cappuccino. “Whatever you wanna call it; your taekwondo. Should be seeing you at Athens, the way I heard,” he joked, even though it took her a couple of seconds to realise he was talking about the Olympics.

At least once she’d figured it out it wasn’t so hard to bend the truth around the lie. “Not really,” Buffy said, sipping her latte and letting her general disappointment with life filter into her voice. “I haven’t trained in a while,” she explained, which was true. “Giles went back to England. Still got the moves, but…” She’d pretty much plateaued as far as slaying went, she realised then, and was getting by on what she already knew. Giles had nothing more to teach her, so he’d said, and if that wasn’t evidence that she was living past her expiration date, she didn’t know what was.

Apparently Slayers and Watchers both came with built-in obsolescence. At least Giles had been able to do something about his.

Across the table, Brian was frowning. “God,” he said. “This really isn’t coming out the pleasant conversation I hoped it was gonna be.”

Quite how she was supposed to respond to that, Buffy didn’t know, but she thought she might as well give him the benefit of the doubt. She had questions of her own; maybe it was time for those. “D’you wanna talk about demons instead?” she suggested. “I’m still curious about what business you do with them.” Mostly she was curious about whether he was evil, but she felt as though she should ease in to that line of questioning.

Slightly less startled than the first time she’d mentioned them, Brian still kept his frown as he asked, “How is it _you_ know about them?” It was funny how many of her coffee conversations went this way.

For this one, at least, she covered automatically, working with the line he’d given her about what she did in her spare time. “Come on,” she said, bluffing. “It’s _Sunnydale_. I went to high school at Sunnydale High. The only difference between me and everybody else who’s been attacked outside the Bronze is that I can hold my own long enough to see the face of what’s attacking me.” It was possible she was going too far, talking about attacks like they were an on-going nuisance, but, well, they were.

Brian seemed to accept it, so that was good enough for her. “Yeah, I can imagine,” he said, shuddering. “Man, am I glad to be out of that town… My contact’s mostly business,” he added, not elucidating very far. “Your mom never really dealt with that side of things. She had the art history background I couldn’t compete with, but there’s one hell of a market here in SoCal for pagan artefacts that are a little more fact than art, if you know what I’m saying.”

“Sure,” Buffy agreed. She didn’t, exactly, but she assumed he meant magic junk, with the added influence of Hellmouth tourism. “We used to get that all the time in high school, weird rituals and stuff.”

That comment hasn't been intended to accuse Brian of supplying all the demons and sorcerers she’d met over the years with their evil paraphernalia, but he looked away anyway, shifting in his chair. “Oh, well,” he said. “Most things in life can be used for all sorts of purposes; it depends on what books you read and…” He trailed off, apparently eager to turn the conversation in a different direction. “I guess you must have been caught up in a lot of that,” he suggested, wincing slightly. “Practising late after class?”

“You’d be surprised,” Buffy replied carefully, fairly certain she’d found the moral ambiguity she hadn’t actively been looking for. “Word gets around that you can handle yourself; suddenly you’re the go-to gal for everybody’s problems.”

As if he’d just remembered something amusing, Brian smiled at her. “You know there’s a legend about that,” he said, like he hadn’t thought about it in a long time and this might actually be a subject they could relax into. “A girl, bit younger than you, bit older than Dawn – high school age, maybe – there’s supposed to be one in every generation who gets chosen to beat back all the demons in the world. Vampires in particular, if I recall.”

Buffy blinked. _No freaking shit…_

Oblivious, Brian continued, “Can you imagine? It’s ridiculous, right, like all those early martyr stories. One girl, chosen by God not to grow up and get married, start a family or anything, but to fight a divine war against the heathens, sacrifice herself for the greater good.” He snorted. “You read the manuscripts and it’s all these monks fantasising about all the ways these girls died, over and over. They’re always alone out in the woods or set upon in ports and you know the monks can’t get enough of it, with the ravaging claws and fangs – uh – penetrating…”

He pulled himself up then, presumably panicking about using the word ‘penetrating’ in front of her, but Buffy was too busy trying to laugh, like she was going along with the joke. Her face couldn’t seem to manage much more than a grimace.

That was her life, wasn’t it? One thing after another for her to fight off, always alone and always a great big joke to some pathetic loser in a habit. Maybe Brian was an all right guy, his heart in the right place even if he was a little rough around the edges, but he’d never understand her – there wasn’t any point in trying to explain.

“Brian, I’ve gotta go,” she said, taking one last gulp of her coffee. It hadn’t been that warm to begin with, fortunately. “I’ve gotta…” She didn’t really want to stay here any longer, so she was going. That was what was happening. She was Power Buffy, in control.

“Oh,” Brian replied, the confused frown back on his face. He didn’t seem too offended, but he did seem to have worked out it was something he’d said. Rather than push her on that, though, he seemed willing to obey social niceties and said, “I’m sorry,” in the way that could have been an apology for holding her up as much as one for making her leave. “Here,” he added, reaching into his jacket pocket and pulling out his wallet. For an awful, terrifying moment she thought he was going to offer her money, which for some reason was a lot more offensive than coffee, but what he pulled out was white, not green. “Take my card,” he said, offering it to her as she stood up. “Give me a call if you ever need anything; we’ll get these financials sorted out.”

Buffy accepted the business card with the closest thing to a smile she could manage, glancing at the name on it ( _Brian Goldstein – Objets d’art and Curiosities_ ) before she picked up her bag and said goodbye. “Thanks for the coffee,” she added, repeating herself, remembering she owed Kate at least two cups of java as well. It was like every time she tried to connect with people all she ended up with was debt. And Spike wondered why she didn’t want his money.

* * *

Leaving the coffee shop, Buffy didn’t want to think about very much. She made her way down the streets automatically, not really registering people as she passed them. The Hyperion wasn’t too long a walk, so she concentrated on avoiding cars as she crossed the streets and moved quickly around everybody else.

A woman who sounded nearly as distraught as her was talking on a cell phone not that far from the hotel, but Buffy ignored her. This wasn’t her town and it probably wasn’t relevant anyway, so the only thing to do, really, was keep on walking, hope she could relax in the hotel and call home. She felt like she could go for being perved on down a phone line right around now, _not_ for being a woundable Slayer-victim.

The cars rushing by, however, were not enough to drown out the key words in what the woman was saying. “I swear to you, Angel,” she was saying and Buffy stopped short, before turning on her heel to look at the woman where she was pacing by a lamppost. “If you don’t turn on your cell phone right now,” she continued, “I am gonna – I’m gonna feed it to you, then charge you a hundred dollars for it as an entrée.”

The voice was familiar and, as she turned her face to the light, Buffy realised it was Cordelia. Cordelia with short – _blonde_ – hair, which three years ago Buffy would have sworn was impossible.

“ _Cordelia?_ ” she asked, hitching her bag on her shoulder in an attempt to mask her confusion.

Surprised, Cordelia jumped and stared in her direction. “ _Buffy?_ ” she asked, shielding her eyes against the afternoon light. “Is that you?”

“In the resurrected flesh,” Buffy replied. She wasn’t sure what else to say.

It didn’t look like Cordelia did either. “You cut your hair,” she finally went with, sounding surprised.

There was only one response to that. “So did you.”

Last time she’d been in LA, Buffy had missed Cordelia. She was the one familiar link left on Angel’s crew – apart from Wesley, maybe, but Buffy had never got to know him very well. Angel didn’t really count, because he came with a really complicated situation of awkwardness and I-have-seen-you-naked familiarity. All she and Cordelia had done was change for gym in the same room. Yet now that Cordelia was actually here, Buffy wasn’t quite sure how things were going to go, because it wasn’t like they’d ever been the best of friends. She found herself waiting for the other woman to set the tone of the conversation, because, really, Buffy didn’t want to be bitchy, but she didn’t want to be the one who got screwed over, either.

Amazingly, what this Los Angeles Cordelia did was break out a smile and say the mutually affirmative, “We’re so in season!”

Immediately Buffy relaxed, smiling back. Maybe she was still capable of interpersonal interaction after all. “I didn’t actually know, but that’s awesome,” she replied, trying to keep up the small talk. “So, how have you been? Angel said you were on vacation.” She remembered then, before Cordelia could reply, what she'd overheard. “And were you calling him, is that what I heard? Isn’t he home?”

Smile collapsing into serious, in a way that made Buffy’s stomach drop, Cordelia nodded to something behind Buffy’s shoulder. “I don’t think anybody’s home,” she said.

“Huh?” she asked, worrying. Cordelia didn’t reply.

Slowly turning around, Buffy realised that she’d not only managed to walk past Cordelia, but the hotel as well, no matter that she’d thought it was on the corner of the next block. In the shadows of the afternoon, the art deco structure didn’t look so out of place on the boulevard. With more than a cursory glance, however, Buffy realised that it didn’t look the way she remembered, not only not exactly but actually not actually. A lot of the windows were gone, holes like wounds in their place on their façade. While the stone facing in general seemed to have coped quite well, there were scorch marks above the doorway and in smudgy streaks up various parts of the building. They looked like shadows, almost, but they weren’t.

“Is that…?” Buffy began, not sure what she wanted to say. _Fire?_

Cordelia seemed to have expected her response. “It must have happened a few days ago,” she said blankly. “The fire department’s been and gone. I mean, this is isn’t the first time we’ve had our building destroyed, but…”

“I’m…” Buffy still had absolutely nothing, only shock. “I was gonna be staying here,” she said, apparently entirely egotistical at this precise moment. “I tried calling, but there wasn’t any answer; Kate and I were gonna meet up.”

Mmming in agreement, apparently already come to terms with what had happened, Cordelia only asked, “Kate?”

“Kate Lockley,” Buffy replied off-handedly, still staring at the surreal face of the Hyperion. _What the hell happened?_ “She’s a detective; we’ve been –”

“I know who she is,” Cordelia interrupted, dragging Buffy’s attention towards her confusion. “She used to work in LA. Angel knew her. I… I guess I never thought about what happened to her after she wasn’t around anymore.”

This was all way, way, way too much unexpected information. “You guys knew Kate?” Buffy asked, unable to resist pointing an accusatory finger in Cordelia’s direction. “But she never said anything!” came out the next exclamation, directed in completely the wrong direction. “I told her about Angel and the hotel and everything and she never said a word, even though she said some stuff when we first met that made me think…” It was all too late in the day for this sort of puzzle, as far as Buffy was concerned, but it seemed like she was stuck with it anyway. “Why the hell didn’t she say anything?”

Equally bemused, Cordelia shrugged. “But she’s coming here?” she asked.

Buffy wasn’t sure she knew anymore. “She’s supposed to be.”

Looking like someone who had just come back from a long journey, which she probably had, Cordelia sighed. “Well, Groo’s taken our bags to my apartment; I’m supposed to be waiting to see if someone shows up, but I guess that someone is you.” Rubbing her possibly-tropically tanned arms against the afternoon breeze, Cordelia sounded pretty put out. “What are we gonna do now? D’you wanna wait for Kate? Come back and freak the hell out in my apartment? Try and find the guys? I can’t get hold of anyone.”

The last one was pretty tempting, but Buffy was mostly caught up in wondering why she was suddenly in charge. “I don’t know,” she said, glancing back at the hotel just to make sure it was still burnt out. “I guess…” Forcing herself to think, she made a decision. “We should wait for Kate at least, else she’s not gonna…”

As Buffy trailed off, Cordelia picked up the slack. “D’you have her number?” she asked, brandishing her phone. “I could call her.”

Buffy wasn’t even sure Kate had a number to call, but then it wasn’t like she ever asked anyone, being cell-less herself. “I don’t know,” she said again, not helpfully – but then the previous few days’ drama managed to echo around in her head in a way that was useful. Tara and Kate: they’d been socialising. That meant communication. “I might be able to get hold of someone who does?” she told Cordelia, whose sceptical eyebrow relaxed into relief. Of course, it wasn’t like Buffy knew Tara’s home number, but this was as good an excuse to call home as any. “Can I borrow your cell?”

Immediately, and weirdly generously, Cordelia held it out. “Go ahead,” she said.

“Thanks,” Buffy replied with a smile, dialling the numbers into the squidgy keys. She wasn’t quite sure how she was going to avoid giving away who was on the other end of the line, because that wasn’t really something she wanted to get into right now, not on top of anything else, but she’d manage something or other…

The line was ringing as Buffy watched the traffic, but then it picked up more quickly than usual.

_“Hello?”_

“Dawn?” she asked, because that was who it was. The connection wasn’t great and the traffic noise made it hard to hear, but it was definitely Dawn. “It’s me. Can you hear me?”

 _“What?”_ Apparently she couldn’t, or at least not perfectly.

Oh well; she’d have to try anyway. “Is, um, is anyone else there with you, Dawn?” she said more loudly, hoping Spike was, though she’d take Willow – even with the awkwardness of asking her to ask Tara for Kate’s number. “It’s me. Something’s – I need…”

The urgency seemed to get through at least, because Dawn heard enough to panic a little, working out that it was her. _“Are you OK?”_

“I’m fine.” There was murmuring to go with the rushing she could hear. Glancing at Cordelia, who was frowning, Buffy tried to gesture that the reception wasn’t so great, wandering a little further down the road, guarding the conversation. “I’m not hearing you very well here, Dawn,” she explained, loudly. “Can you –”

_“Slayer? Love, are you all right? What’s going on?”_

She paused by a tree, able to hear Spike’s voice more than clearly enough. She smiled, not really meaning to, and hoped that with her back to her, Cordelia wouldn’t really be able to make out the conversation. “I’m _fine_ ,” she said, letting her voice tinge with aggravation but mostly feeling blank. Seriousness was called for, so she cupped her hand around her mouth and the cell to explain, seriously, “But something’s happened here, to Angel and his friends. I’m not sure what.”

 _“Are you…”_ It sounded as though Spike was trying really, really hard to calm down. He paused before speaking again. _“What d’you mean?”_

“I wasn’t there when it happened,” she told him. “But the hotel’s… Well, it’s been burnt down, pretty much. There’s no one here and it’s all charred up. I’m with Cordelia and she says this kind of thing’s happened before, but I think it’s pretty bad.” And wasn’t that the understatement of the century?

 _“Is Kate with you?”_ Frowning, Buffy wasn’t quite sure what he meant by that, because even with her gun there was no way that Kate could protect her better than she could protect herself. As he continued, it became clear that that wasn’t his main concern. _“You shouldn’t be seen round there. Don’t matter where you go, but if there’s people watching…”_

Getting his point, Buffy looked up and started looking around. Cordelia was contemplating her manicure, but otherwise the sidewalk was basically empty. Some other pedestrians were down by the intersection, but otherwise it was all cars, moving cars… “Kate’s not here yet,” she said, still on alert as she spoke. “I’m with Cordelia; she’s just come home from vacation. We’re gonna have to wait – or else I was gonna ask,” she added, glad she’d got to the point of her call. “Can you call Tara and ask if Kate has a cell phone number? Or see if maybe the police station has it on file? I don’t know if she has one, obviously. A cell, I mean. But if we could call then we could…”

 _“Got it.”_ It was nice when Spike managed to decode her babbling. He’d probably had a lot of practice with Drusilla, but maybe that wasn’t worth thinking about. _“I’ll call you straight back.”_

“Thank you,” Buffy told him, meaning it, her stomach settling with relief. If they could get in contact with Kate, then they could work out what they were going to do next, even if that was only to choose the place they were going to to panic some more.

_“No worries.”_

Now came the moment when she was supposed to hang up, but Buffy didn’t want to. She paused for a moment, trying to think of something vital to say, which would give her an excuse to stay on the line, but she couldn’t come up with anything.

Spike didn’t seem that keen to hang up either, and had far fewer qualms about using the call for private conversation. _“But you’re all right?”_ Even if he was repetitive, it was still nice to be asked. _“Everything else is all right?”_

She felt guilty as her mind left the current crisis and tracked back over the day, but it didn’t stop her doing it. “Yeah, pretty much,” she told him, not feeling very enthusiastic about it. It was a struggle to fully remember what had happened, but she knew Spike wanted to know. “I met Brian and we went through the paperwork,” she continued, stubbing her toe along the crack between sidewalk paving stones. “His lawyers seemed to want him to get out of paying me, but he told them, I dunno, one of your expressions…”

_“He told them to fuck off?”_

She could have come up with that one herself, but whatever. “Maybe not quite so…”

_“Good on him.”_

“… Yeah.” It wasn’t like she didn’t agree with the sentiment, was it, in the end? “I guess.” Score one for Mr. Beta Male.

He heard her pause and raised her a hesitation. _“What is it?”_

This wasn’t the time – this _really_ wasn’t the time to get into how a short coffee with a stranger had been enough, as always, for her to realise the extent to which her life sucked, in its most basic principles as well as in reality. There were bigger things to worry about, like what the hell had happened to Angel, even if that wasn’t technically part of her remit. As she’d discovered over the years, you couldn’t protect the world in isolated bursts. “It was just something he said,” she found herself explaining anyway, because apparently she was that weak. “He knows about demons, but not about Slayers and he said…” The exact words didn’t really matter, did they? “Oh, he didn’t mean it, but he left me feeling kind of low.”

For a moment there was silence, as Spike presumably tried to work out what to say. In the end it seemed like he’d taken to heart all the times she’d rejected his sympathy, because he just went with the practical. _“Is there anything else you want me to do? Besides getting the number? You’re not going to be back tonight, are you?”_

She wouldn’t be, she realised. “No,” she said, and it made her sigh, resigned. She couldn’t leave until she knew that everything here was OK. The main reason she’d been intending to stay was that Kate didn’t want to drive out in rush hour traffic, but it had always been possible that she could have come back to Sunnydale that evening. There was no way now, though, that they could just abandon Cordelia or pretend like something wasn’t going down.

The question was, what did she want Spike to do in the meantime? There wasn’t much he could do in Sunnydale – but then… There was always _something._ “Could you, though…” she began, looking back to Cordelia and wondering whether this was what she really wanted to ask. “Would you be able to…” This was selfish, this was a really selfish idea, not least because she knew he’d say yes if she asked, but the thought was crossing her mind and it seemed like a far better thought than going this alone. Even with the others around her. “Is there any way you could come down here on your motorbike?” she asked at last, blushing violently.

His initial response wasn’t what she might have expected: Spike, apparently, couldn’t quite believe what he was hearing. _“Tonight?”_

Wincing, she confirmed, “Yeah.” Of course it didn’t make sense to him, but it made sense to her. If he was with her, she knew she’d have a slightly higher chance of surviving. More than that, she’d have a much lower chance of stressing out, panicking and generally worrying in a way that would make it harder to find Angel and the others and work out what was going on. It would keep her from being ravaged in some woods; generally it would just make her happier. The more she thought about it, the more it seemed like a good idea, a rational plan. It felt like she should have asked him along for the day in the first place. “I like having you with me,” she explained, nervously.

And yet she’d been wrong about him automatically saying yes, because he deferred for a few more seconds of silence. _“Buffy…”_ She cursed herself for taking him for granted, the slight sickness of her worry digging deeper at the thought of the night ahead. But then – _“Bloody hell.”_ He sounded torn, uncertain, but not quite rejecting her. _“Yes, I’ll – of course I’ll be there. Should… Willow’s out right now; I should wait till she’s back so Dawn’s not…”_ Then there was yelling the background, confusing Buffy as she bit her lip. Presumably the shouting came from a Dawn who resented any implication that she needed someone with her, even if they all knew she didn’t like being left alone. Buffy felt guilty for not being at home – for encouraging Spike to leave. He was always better at prioritising Dawn than her, even if Dawn was the main reason she was in the city anyway. _“You can be a contradictory little twit sometimes, you know that?”_ And now she knew she was a bad person, because she laughed. _“Not you, love.”_ His voice directed itself back down the phone, making her smile with its fondness. _“Not all the time, anyway.”_

Buffy wasn’t sure what to say back. In the end, how could she not love someone who managed to realise she was about ninety percent flaw, and yet said she was amazing all the same? “Noted,” she eventually decided on, smiling, relieved and trying not to sound too desperate – because she would have managed without him, maybe.

Smirk in his voice, Spike got them back on track, conveniently ignorant of her embarrassing rush of emotion. _“So, what’s the plan?”_

Shaking herself, Buffy thought through the practicalities. They couldn’t wait for Spike at the Hyperion, not once they’d tracked down Kate, so they needed another rendezvous point. “OK,” she tried out. “If you get Kate’s number, then we’ll probably find her first or wait for her to come here, then head out looking for the rest of Angel’s guys. We could meet at…” Where did they both know? Oh yeah – “Do you remember Wesley’s apartment? We could meet there in a few hours.”

After a brief pause, Spike seemed all right with the idea. _“Can vaguely remember it. You got an address?”_

Buffy turned back to Cordelia. “I can get an address for when you call back,” she confirmed.

_“Then we’re on.”_


	11. You’re Not Taking the Pulse of the Public.

_“Well, I’ve got naff all my end. Sorry, love.”_

_“No… That’s fine. We can still go with the original plan. Cordy and I’ll hang here until Kate shows up and then we’ll catch up with you at Wesley’s.”_

_“All right. But I was thinking, yeah, d’you want me to have a look-see round the hotel first, before I meet you? Might be able to sniff something out or what have you.”_

_“Yeah, sure. That sounds like a good idea, actually; we don’t have much else to go on. Whatever you think might help.”_

_“There’s probably nothing to find, but… Don’t fret; we’ll track down the big lug somehow. Worst comes to worst, we can start buying up supplies of hair gel – smoke him out of the woodwork.”_

_“Not funny, Spike…”_

_“Oh, right? Then why are you laughing?”_

_“That wasn’t laughing! That was dismay.”_

_“Yeah right it was.”_

_“You just get on with your sniffing, Scooby-Doo. Velma and I are gonna wait for, uh, whichever one Kate is and get on with reading the fairground owner’s diary, or whatever.”_

_“You wish you’d never started that analogy, don’t you?”_

_“Shut up.”_

_“Though Daphne and the dog… It’s kinky, I’ll say that for it. Want me wagging my tail, do you?”_

_“OK, I am so hanging up now.”_

 

Spike rode fast to LA. He’d called Tara, who’d told him that if Kate had a cell phone, she didn’t know the number – and then the police department, but they’d basically said that even the SDPD wasn’t stupid enough to give out an officer’s number to anyone who called up claiming to know them. Willow had offered to hack into the police database, but he hadn’t been sure how that stood up in Buffy’s moral code… According to Red, they did it all the time, but he was sceptical. Data was still property, right? You couldn’t not be evil by nicking it or kidnapping it or whatever hacking amounted to in the great Buffy Summers scheme of metaphor.

Anyway, Dawn had been sobering up a little crotchety after her beer, so it seemed best to make himself scarce. He didn’t hang around.

_“Ride careful.”_

That was what Buffy had told him, which warmed the cockles of his heart even if nothing else did. The advice was all relative, because had no intention of riding any differently from how he usually did down the highway, which was probably reckless for a human but perfectly reasonable, he thought, for a supernatural creature like him who’d been dodging stakes from the day he’d been fledged. They might have all come from Angelus, who was easy to predict, but that didn’t matter in the scheme of things.

The journey went by in one long blast of wind through his jacket. He missed his coat, but the bike was still good. It let him filter quickly and comfortably through some truly horrendous traffic, zip through the suburbs and into the city proper.

Before he headed over to Wesley’s apartment, like he’d said to Buffy he would, Spike aimed for the scene of the crime. The plan in his head was to be useful: there could well be something there a vampire nose could pick up that Buffy’s delicate Slayer-nostrils hadn’t managed to get a handle on. And so he rode right down behind the hotel, up the alleyway to get his bike as close to the building as possible. The exterior was much as Buffy had described: windows gutted out, smoke marks up the walls in a way that proved how long it had taken for someone to call the authorities – but, going in through the back, it looked as though the garden had survived. The fountain was entirely intact, lawn well mown; the jasmine was blossoming in the moonlight.

Despite all that, there was definitely something amiss. One of the balconies on the second floor had what looked like a pennant flying from the balustrade, drooping and waving gently in the breeze. Heading closer, Spike realised that it was a collection of bedsheets tied together, the four corners of one single sheet knotted at the corners to larger, king size lengths of cotton which stretched up the side of the building, like a hammock on suspension lines. It didn’t quite reach the ground and it reeked of smoke, but it looked strong enough to hold something reasonably light. Yeah, this hadn't been mentioned at all; he wondered if Buffy and the others even knew it was here.

Lying on the patio next to the sheet contraption was the more obvious paraphernalia Spike expected from a burnt out building: a pile of things to land on. The selection was fairly scanty, like whoever had used it had been forced to act in a rush, but there was a child’s mattress there, Spike discovered as he rooted through the pile, which, yeah, had definitely belonged to Angel’s kid, then another single mattress and then all manner of duvets and pillows, with the corners of their covers cleverly tied together so the collection was more compressed and squishy than it would have been with all the same things flat.

It didn’t look like the sort of thing Angel would have put together, if only because his Angelness would have been able to comfortably lift a few more decent-sized mattresses and throw them out of the window, which would have been far safer. One of the duvets was clearly his, and clearly needed a wash, but the others seemed to belong to the uninhabited parts of the hotel, and smelled, to varying degrees, of smoked mould – which, Spike decided very quickly as he dropped the bedding and snorted rapidly to clear his nose, he didn’t want to smell again.

Someone had escaped from here, it seemed to him, and it hadn’t been Angel. They’d had to lower something down before they took a jump, and if Spike was going to exercise the analytical part of his brain that every now and then managed to surprise him, the obvious answer was the kid. Connor. Someone had been left on babysitting duty when all this had gone down, and even though they’d had enough time to concoct all this business, they hadn’t had the opportunity to escape through the lobby or whatever rudimentary fire escape system this old place had. That meant arson, most likely, not that it hadn’t been the most likely option already. It probably meant human as well, though, because most demons had the wherewithal to do their own bloody murdering rather than spark a match and see.

The question now, then, was whether Angel’s arsonist had known his son was in the building when they’d set it on fire. Because, if he had, then Angel was going to kill him, soul or no soul. And if Spike wasn’t lucky, he was going to get him, Buffy and everyone else to help.

_Fuck._

That couldn’t happen, Spike thought as he looked around the garden. Not that he gave a shit about whoever had done this – they’d played their hand the moment they’d thought they could push Angel this far and not see the demon come out. Maybe that was their plan; who knew? The point was, he wasn’t having Buffy party to anything she would see as murder. She wouldn’t let herself be party to it in the first place, if she knew it was going on, but if they weren’t careful then it would be set in play without their help. Angel would always be the most manipulative bastard in town, after all.

Making his way round to the front of the building, Spike tried to work out what he needed to do. When his luck held, he could sometimes come up with a plan that didn’t entirely leave him in the shit, so maybe this was an occasion to try and give it a go. He needed to get hold of either Angel or his arsonist before Buffy was too embroiled in the picture, which meant he should probably try and track the old git down before he met up with the others at Wesley the Watcher’s apartment.

How he might actually go about that was another question entirely. Standing on the steps of the Hyperion’s front entrance, Spike couldn’t really get a sense of anyone who’d left – certainly not a recent sense that would take him anywhere useful. The amount of cologne Angel wore meant there were more than enough traces of it still around, probably left by his hands on the brass plates of the door, but that wouldn’t get him anywhere either, even with a full CSI kit and a lab full of computers.

There was, however, one avenue that Spike wanted to try before he forced himself to abandon the the capabilities of his nose. A whole fire department of extra humans had been through here, wreathing the place in tape and warning signs, so a straightforward sniff around inside wasn’t going to get him anywhere. At the same time, it wasn’t like Angel not to have more than one escape route, and if Spike was lucky, then this one would be a lot more personalised…

Kicking through the barred front door, Spike found himself face to face with the destruction inside the lobby. It hadn’t been long since he and Buffy had been here the last time, when he’d spent not an unpleasant afternoon lying on the couch in the middle of the room with least poncy parts of Angel’s library, so he could remember what it was supposed to look like. Now, and it made his stomach turn a little to see it, the whole place was gone: the ottoman was charred to nothing apart from its metal frame and the reception desk had cracked and crumbled into itself like firewood. Maybe he couldn't find it in his soulless heart to care that much, but it was all a sad sight to see.

As he walked across the floor, flaked pieces of paint and stucco crunched under Spike’s feet, fallen from the charred walls and ceiling. Ignoring all of that, he headed to the side of the reception desks, where the offices were. All of the back rooms looked just as wrecked as the main one, with enough books blackened and burnt to make him feel a an actual twinge of sympathy, because, yeah, it was a bit sad. Not as sad as when all of his own stuff had gone up in flames, but it was a terrible business, this burning of possessions.

Distracting himself with the search, it wasn’t long before he found what he was looking for: the entrance to whatever it was that served as the Hyperion’s basement. _Jackpot._ Sure enough, as he walked down the stairs, he found the thing you found in all good basements: a sewer entrance.

The LA brand of sewer smell was different to its upstate competitor, but it was still more than distinguishable. Now that the air wasn’t quite so crowded with the scent of smoke and general panic, Spike thought he was able to catch some sort of trail that Angel might actually have left when he was last out of the hotel. He’d spent so many years trailing through sewers – and, hell, London under the reign of old Vicky – that it was easy to filter out the smell of excrement, so he was fairly certain this was what he needed to follow. Letting his sense of the old hotel fade - and with it his disturbing feelings of upset - he stomped off down the watery pathway.

* * *

It felt better to be on his feet, to a certain extent, and stalk through the night like a creature who belonged to it. The sewerways in Los Angeles seemed to be as demon-friendly as the ones back in Sunny-D, even if he had no way of knowing where he was going here, apart from in the most general, Angely direction possible.

What was most certainly to be noticed in the LA route, however, was the bloody disconcerting _friendliness_ of the few demons he encountered along the way. It wasn’t long after sunset, so the bigger bads could be presumed busy sleeping in, getting drunk, having a shag or all manner of disreputable activities, while the people he was running into here were those with sunny dispositions and get-up-and-go personalities - the sort who'd rather operate in the daytime if they could.

Still, the third time someone said hello, a particularly ugly bugger with massive horns and what were possibly camel humps running down his arms, Spike had an idea.

“Hey there!” the demon said with a smile, waving the hand that wasn’t holding a brown paper bag of shopping.

This time, Spike didn’t scowl and push on his way, but came to a pause. He couldn’t bring himself to smile, so didn’t try and force it, but he managed to affect a curious expression all the same. “Hello mate,” he said, leaving the demon space to pass but stopping close enough to him that he felt obliged to stop all the same. “Could I ask you a quick question? It won’t take a tick.”

A bemused, nice-but-dim expression passed over the demon’s face. “Sure, pal,” was the first thing he said, even as he grimaced slightly. “Shoot.”

“All right,” Spike agreed, trying to make himself seem like the least threatening creature of the night no demon should fuck with or lie to. It wasn’t an easy ask. “You don’t happen to know a vampire called Angel, do you? Got a soul, big hair, personality a bit like a mushroom?” The demon clearly did know him, because he froze up - Spike had a feeling the mushroom description had tipped it – so he quickly tried to capitalise on what he could. In a reassuring way. “Now, now, I don’t want any trouble,” he suggeted, gesturing with his empty hands. “I’m…” Ah, self-definition, now that was a tricky one. “I’m family of his, from out of town.” That worked, just about. “Something’s happened where he was living, it looks like; I’m trying to track him down, find out if anyone’s seen him.”

“You’re not…” the demon began, far too terrified for something that looked like it could squash a bus; his groceries were jittering. “You’re not one of _them_ , are you?”

“One of who?” Spike pushed.

The demon looked nervously over his shoulder before replying. “One of… Oh, man, there’s been so many people in town recently. And I – I got no beef with Angel, you know? Not that I mean…!” He was clearly trying to stay on Spike’s good side, but wasn’t quite sharp enough to speak and say nothing. “I don’t want any trouble. Angel’s never bothered me; I ain’t ever bothered him. I don’t know…”

“You know something happened to him at the hotel, don’t you?” Spike summarised, pinning the demon still with a glare that was at least two parts swagger from the old days, even if it was one part leniency. Why he wasn’t just beating the lumpy git until he talked, Spike didn’t know, but it didn’t seem particularly sporting – and the poor bloke’s food would get all squashed. He knew how that went: there was nothing more annoying than making it to the shops only to get beaten up and lose your haul on the way home. Right now, there was no call for it – and Spike didn’t fancy getting egg on his new jeans. “I’m not out to get him,” he explained then, still trying to be reasonable, even as the demon trembled in the sewer’s gloomy light. “As I said, he’s family. All I need is to find him, if you know where he is.”

The demon looked torn, glancing back and forth down the tunnel like he wished he’d taken another way home. “I heard…” he eventually said, and Spike tried to nod encouragingly. “I heard he was hiding out somewhere, maybe Echo Park? People are getting out of there, man, don’t wanna get burned out. Some of us asphyxiate real easy.”

 _Echo Park, eh?_ That wasn’t all that far, but it was more than Spike wanted to walk right now. Luckily enough, it was on the way to Wesley’s apartment, so he wouldn’t even be going off-route; he’d get the bike and see what he could find out before he headed on to meet up with Buffy. “Cheers, mate,” he told the demon anyway, slapping a hand to one of the lumps on his arm – remembering too late that that sort of thing tended to be some sort of sex organ far more often than you liked.

Fortunately, it didn’t look as though he’d just given the demon an unsolicited handjob, even if he did immediately sneeze. “No problem,” he got out, sniffly. _ACHOO._ “Really.”

Giving him a salute, Spike headed on his way to the sound of repeated sneezing.

* * *

It wasn’t long before Spike was in Echo Park, cruising around on the lookout for places Angel might have chosen to hide in. There were a few of them, as it happened, which Spike wasn’t sure what to do about. Most of the shops and restaurants were still open, but the warehouses looked like they were waiting for their early morning deliveries, shut down for the night. From the outside it was hard to tell which ones were abandoned and which ones were just shut up. The graffiti certainly wasn’t going to help him.

As luck would have it, though, on the third pass by the park itself Spike caught sight of the green bloke they’d met last time – Lorne. He had a trench coat and a trilby, coupled with some natty sunglasses, but the green was still recognisable, not least as he dashed furtively across the street by some nicely flood-lit road works. Clearly Angel hadn’t been teaching his people about the meaning of stealth.

Keeping an eye on the demon, Spike eased his way out of traffic and parked the bike at the mouth of an alleyway. There was a niggle in his brain that he should really secure the bike somewhere a bit less open, because he was getting worryingly attached to the thing, but he managed to dismiss that and get on with his stalking before Lorne was out of sight.

It was like riding a bike, really – another bike – and Spike found himself instinctively slipping through the shadows on Lorne’s trail, barely earning a glance back over the demon’s shoulder.

The problem with this sort of prey-trailing, so Spike had always thought, was that it was _boring_. He’d been forced to master the technique back in the early days, and it wasn’t that hard for a vampire with half a mind about him to learn how to move quickly, silently and invisibly. If you did it perfectly, the thing was, the prey never even knew you were coming, which as far as Spike was concerned was no fun at all. It was always nicer to give a hint that something bad was about to happen, get their heartbeats going, get the adrenaline pumping for a potentially decent fight before you had your dinner.

But now wasn’t the time for that, so he persevered, drifting ever closer to the green meanie, who spent most of his time looking in the wrong direction. By the time he arrived at one backstreet, anonymous warehouse, sneaking in through the door, Spike was more than ready to make an entrance – and have a bit of fun.

“You’re really slipping in your old age, mate,” he carolled as a greeting, striding onto the warehouse floor where he found Angel and the gang gasping in gratifying shock. “I mean, really, time was you could manage your minions better than this,” he finished with a smirk.

“Spike,” Angel growled, clutching little baby Connor to his chest. He looked - like he needed a shave, of all things, even if it would take a while yet for his five o’clock shadow to resemble anything like designer stubble. There was a reason you never saw a vampire with a beard: the hair took bloody ages to grow. “What the hell are you doing here?” Muggins continued, not quite settling into the anticlimax. That bloke Gunn and his girlfriend Fred relaxed, but Lorne still looked shifty. The Fred girl had a sling around an arm like it was broken or something, which suggested she’d been the one to escape with the baby out of the hotel. Fair enough. Wesley was missing. “If you’ve led anyone to us, I’ll…”

“Oh, please,” Spike mocked, unwilling to partake in Angel’s action-movie dialogue, calming down a little. That was the thing about family, wasn't it? Every conversation picked up from the last. “You ought to care more about your dear friend Kermit.” He sent a pointed look Lorne’s way. “Sorry, mate,” he told him, “but incognito you are not, especially in that get-up.”

“Yeah, well, can I get some credit for trying, here?” Lorne replied, dumping his shopping on a nearby table, which seemed to be the dumping ground for anything that needed to be kept off the floor. “If I knew how to blend in I’d have started on it years ago.”

Spike snorted in agreement, still fairly happy in his decision that this bloke was the best out of Angel’s lackeys. It wasn’t like he’d ever managed the trick of looking grey and meaningless either – he’d just made a feature of it when he’d been turned, rather than snivelling in the corner like a miseryguts. And then he’d left it to Mr. Grey himself…

Who was still not impressed. “Again, Spike, why are you in town?” Angel asked. “Buffy kick you to the curb or something? Leave you nothing to do but bother me?”

“ _No,_ ” Spike replied, maybe a bit too quickly. It wasn’t his fault it had been touch and go for a while there. “Me and Buffy are fine, thank you. Or not, now that I think about it.” Forcibly, he recovered his swagger, two hands on his hips and his chin raised a touch.

It made Angel roll his eyes. “Then what happened to your coat?” he asked.

That almost deflated him. But Spike refused to let it, shrugging off the question and trying to forget how scratchy the new cotton felt on his arms. “Don’t you like the new look?” he asked, straightening his collar. “I decided all the black made me look dead, mate; thought I should get some colour in the mix.” If in doubt, act like you’d intended whatever it was you’d done. And mock Angel. “You should think about it.”

“He has a point, you know,” Lorne added, which made Angel look even more furious. It was possible that someone with Lorne’s taste in polyester and acid bright colours wasn’t exactly who Spike wanted on his side, but he’d go with whatever he could get.

And so he smiled a winsome grin. “There; you see?” Angel fumed.

“Anyway, for those of us who don’t subscribe to Vampire Vogue,” Gunn then piped up, interrupting with a hand in Spike’s direction. “What are you doing here, actually? Come to revel in the misery?”

Looking around the pathetic little hideout, which was kitted out with all of the finest equipment an outdoor activity store could provide, including airbeds and sleeping bags and a neat little gas stove, Spike couldn’t be bothered to keep up the game any longer. Because, yeah, wow, this was miserable. “Buffy’s in town,” he explained, gesturing with his left hand and letting his right settle in a pocket. “Had some legal stuff to sort out. She called in on you lot, found the sorry state your hotel’s been left in, met up with her dear old friend Ms. Chase and gave me a bell. Asked me to come help out with the inevitable fallout from whatever mess it was you’ve got yourself into.” He directed the last comment at Angel, just to make sure he knew whom Spike held accountable for his disrupted evening.

“Right,” Angel replied, apparently a lot less interested in his tale than he’d first made out. “That explains why you’re in LA, but not why you’re _here_. Where’s Buffy now?”

Spike shrugged. “She was waiting for a mate of hers. Think they’re going to investigate a bit, then we’re going to meet at Wesley’s apartment…” Again, Spike looked around the warehouse, just to make certain he really wasn’t there. It didn’t look like it. There was a drum kit in one corner, which was interesting, but no watcher. “Where is the stuffy git, anyway? You didn’t eat him out of boredom, did you? I know all that scotch is probably doing something nice to his insides, but…”

“Angel would _never!_ ” the little twiglet Fred interrupted, with another gratifying gasp, like when he’d walked in. He gave her a wink, glad to have someone who appreciated him.

“Never mind about Wes,” Angel interrupted, drawing Spike’s attention back his way. He didn’t look entirely free of thoughts about eating, which was odd. Something was going on there. “What was that you were saying about Cordy?” he continued, changing the subject – even more suspicious. “Is she back? Is she OK?”

“Sounds like she’s fine,” Spike offered. If Buffy had said something about her, then he didn’t remember it, so that probably meant she was all right. “Back from her holidays; got her cell phone; pissed off at you for not turning yours on or whatever it is you’ve done with it – and why is it you’ve got a mobile again? Who’s gonna call you, your dry cleaners? Can’t you wait for the machine to take it?” Angel didn’t seem to be enjoying this line of questioning, but as far as Spike was concerned that was for the best. The only way to get anything useful out of Angel was to knock him far enough off balance that he couldn’t help let something slip; it had always been the same. “That’s not it, is it,” Spike continued, therefore. “You probably have a delivery service tacked on anyway, don’t you, so the shirts come straight from the iron into your sweaty little hands.”

And yet, this barrage of unconstrained wit didn’t garner much of a response, which left them all standing in the silence once again. Spike found it quite unnerving, all the dead air and Angel looking at him like he was a fly in the already cruddy ointment of his day.

What now, then? If Angel wasn’t going to talk, then he had a bit of a problem, because there wasn’t much else for him to do here. Buffy almost certainly had a plan, because she always had a plan, and while it might help that he’d tracked Angel down, that was all done and dusted. What was he supposed to do next? Go and get her so she could berate Angel herself, see if she could get any more out of him? Tell Angel to sit tight and get on with the rest of the mission, whatever that was?

Spike wasn’t cut out for this sort of business.

“For Christ’s sake, Angel,” he said after a moment of awkwardness, not quite able to take it. “What the fuck is going on? Why is your place burnt down – why are you hiding out here like some sort of baddie of the week? This is ridiculous.” Airbeds! They’d been sleeping on bloody airbeds! If that wasn’t enough to convince anyone that things were really not right, Spike didn’t know what was.

Staring back, Angel himself seemed to be taking the whole thing much more seriously. He had a look in his eyes that reminded Spike of what he’d thought back at the hotel, that someone was going to be in very deep water over this, and Angel wouldn’t give a shit what anyone else thought. Of course, Spike remembered, he’d sicced Dru and Darla on those lawyers last year, so it wasn’t even out of the character he was playing these days. Not that Buffy knew about that bit.

It was slightly galling how wonderful she probably thought Mr. Soulful was. The thing was, given the alternative was likely just miserable, Spike had a feeling he preferred things this way. “Will you bloody say something?” he demanded finally, unnerved not least by how quiet the rest of the gang was being. It was like they were afraid.

“OK, Spike, I’ll say something,” Angel snapped, venom bubbling over into his voice. “What d’you wanna hear? How hard it is to keep a baby warm and safe and happy in a place no better than a goddamn cave?” He lurched a bit as he said it, which of course had baby Connor awake and crying in his arms right on cue, accompanying the rest of Angel’s hissed rant as he bobbed, trying to calm the boy back down. “What it’s like to have your home go up in smoke?”

Out of the corner of his eye, Spike could see Fred the mini-mum using her good arm to elbow Gunn towards some kit that probably contained milk or whatever it was that babies drank. Lorne was shaking his head, hat in hands. “Yeah, well, it's funny you should say that…” Spike began, not looking at Angel as he very ill-advisedly began to give away that particular shit turn of his last few days.

As luck would have it, Angel cut him off. “Or how about what it’s like to find out someone you trusted has been talking to your enemy, carrying on conversations behind your back about who knows what?”

Ah, so that was where old Wesley was. Been done for fraternising, had he? It seemed a bit unlikely, as far as Spike was concerned, but you never could tell with Watchers, ex- or no. “Is that why you voted him off the island, then?” Spike asked, cringing inside as the phrase left his lips but hoping Angel would still be twenty years behind the times (as usual) and not know what he was talking about. “A couple of words in the wrong ear and that’s it?”

“You wouldn’t know what it’s like, Spike,” Angel growled. _Yeah, yeah._ “You’ve never cared about anything.” Well, that was a bit much. “You can’t tell me it was wrong to cut him out, not now Holtz has done what he did.” Oh, so it _was_ Holtz then, Spike realised. This was not good. And Spike didn’t seem to be the only one who knew it; the others were definitely making themselves busy – even Connor was mewling his way to quietude. “If he’d been around, kept us in the hotel…” _Oh._ It sounded like Wesley hadn’t been around before the hotel had got burnt up, so that was even worse, if Angel thought they’d been in on it together. From the dangerous look on his face, it certainly looked like he did. “He could have killed my _son,_ ” he spat out, merciless. “You tell me how I should trust him. I will _never_ have people near my family who –”

“What? Show a bit of initiative?” Spike interrupted. He was feeling seriously out of his depth here, but he kept on anyway, refusing to be drawn into Angel’s game of doom and gloom and noir threats over whiskey and darts. None of this made sense. The Watcher had been so happy when he’d thought Angel and his son would be safe, last time Spike had been in town – and even with Holtz, Buffy had said he’d wanted the baby safe and Angel dead, not the other way around, hadn’t she? “Give me a break.” Angel wasn’t thinking at all, as usual. But then that was the problem with hero-types, Spike knew. They expected absolute control over every single thing you did and said and thought, made you public enemy number one the moment you stepped out of line, pinned anything they could on you.

Or, well, hero types like Angel, anyway. Villain types like him too, now Spike came to think of it…

“What makes you so certain he had some nefarious plan?” Spike tried, certain that the big man would never listen to him, but not above venting a little bit. “Maybe he was trying to help out.” That made Angel snort, which got Spike’s back up even more. It was like Buffy and the eggs all over again, which, in retrospect, had been a bad idea – but the thought behind it had been in the right place. Buffy at least was woman enough to consider that lesser mortals might be trying to do the right thing. Immortals too. All right, maybe sometimes with her it was down to a bloke’s luck on the day whether or not he got the benefit of the doubt, but there was at least some leeway to be had sometimes.

Angel, on the other hand, was nothing but negative, all the time. And he was far less attractive. “You really don’t know the first thing about trust, do you?” Spike found himself blowing up, frustrated in the face of all these ridiculous standards people like Angel thought they could throw around. “Minions is right; that’s exactly what you want,” he decided, nodding to himself. “People who won’t wipe their own arses without your say-so, reporting in 24/7. No independent thought allowed.” According to Angel’s code, Spike was certain, he would never be good enough.

Problem was, with codes like that, one person at the top defining the rules, you had no check for when things started going off the rails. “I won’t let _anyone_ put Connor in danger,” Angel insisted, inevitably, staring daggers Spike’s way.

It was his tough luck Spike had always gone in for anarchy. “I’m not gonna let you kill him,” he said straight out, meaning Holtz but happy to have Angel think he meant Wesley too, if he was that far gone. He looked as surprised as Spike would have been at himself a few years ago, but that was the thing, wasn’t it? Times changed and people with them. “Just thought you should know.” He was deadly serious on this point, too aware of how Buffy would take it if it happened on what was now her watch. Their watch. Whatever. He wasn’t having it, was what this came down to. “I will stop you.”

Angel said nothing, staring him down.


	12. The Next Thing You Know You’re LBJ.

_“OK. I am so hanging up now.”_

_“Oh, you are, are you?”_

_“Yeah.”_

_“All right, then.”_

_“Just ride careful, will you?”_

_“Ruff-ruff, Daphne.”_

_“…You’re so weird.”_

_“Yeah, well, you too, Summers.”_

_“And what is that supposed to mean?”_

_“What’s what supposed to mean?”_

_“That. ‘You too, Summers.’ What’s that supposed to mean?”_

_“It means I take what I can get from you. Far as it goes.”_

_“What does that… Whatever. You can get a lot from me, Spike; we’ve been over this.”_

_“I know I can. That’s why I take it.”_

_“What is it you want me to say? Do you want me to say I love you at the end of every conversation, is that it? Like we’re that couple doomed for failure in a romcom?”_

_“Well, it wouldn’t hurt.”_

_“Fine, then; I love you. Love love love.”_

_“Love you, too.”_

_“There, now we’ve both been sarcastic at each other. Feel better?”_

_“Yeah, actually. I don’t have a problem with sarcastic affection.”_

_“… I still think you’re freaking weird.”_

_“As long as you’re thinking of me.”_

 

By the time Kate showed up, Buffy was seriously running low on small talk.

To start with, it hadn’t been so bad. The stealth in her conversation with Spike had been provoked all the way out of her, so, when she’d handed the cell phone back for the second time, Cordelia had looked at her with one raised eyebrow and asked what was going on. It had left Buffy defensive, which was never overly pleasant, but the general explanation of her and Spike had at least given them something to talk about. Apparently Cordelia had seen it coming, a little, after she saw Spike and got ranted at by Dawn when she'd come to Buffy’s funeral, which was another thing.

And it was touching; Buffy was touched. She made a mental note to make whatever trip was necessary to come and see Cordelia-call-me-Cordy one final time if the worst happened. Funerals were important. It was important to accept death, to allow people to move on from life when they were gone. Maybe she had been brought back and found her place back in the circle of life again, whatever it was they sung about in _The Lion King_ , but Buffy was fully convinced it was important to let go.

A mutual appreciation of funerary rites of passage, however, was not enough to carry a conversation long-term, so soon they were left with nothing.

“Do you think Kate’s gonna be much longer?” Cordelia asked, apparently on the same wavelength – and less embarrassed about showing it.

That was a relief. “We kind of guessed what time my meeting would finish,” Buffy said, looking up and down the street with more obvious impatience, “but that was around now, so she shouldn’t be.”

“I still can’t believe she’s working in Sunnydale,” Cordy mused, like there was so little possible conversation left that they needed to go over old ground. Slightly distracting, gossipy ground. “And tracking demons… She always hated the supernatural world. I mean,” she qualified, explaining with a sidelong glance Buffy’s way. “Vampires killed her dad,” she said. It was a hesitant admission, like it wasn’t her story to tell – which it wasn’t, obviously. Buffy felt bad for appreciating the intel all the same. “She never trusted Angel after that – or any of us, really. I’m, uh…” Buying herself some time, Cordy cleared her throat before she finished, “I’m kinda surprised she trusts you.”

Well, huh. That was definitely something to think about. The suggestion came to Buffy as something of a surprise, because it was Kate who had come to her for help in the first place. She supposed there was no reason why that couldn’t have been necessity, rather than trust. She’d been looking to solve the case of Katrina’s murder and Buffy had been the one who’d reported the crime: there wasn’t any reason to think Kate had known she was the Slayer before she’d looked her up and tracked her down. “Huh,” she repeated out loud, wondering why she never gave much thought to these things before they became a problem. “To be honest, I don’t even know if she does.”

But that didn’t fit, did it? Not with everything that had been happening, and not with Kate offering her a job. Looking out into the street again, keeping an eye out for one red Hyundai sedan, Buffy wondered whether it even mattered. She only needed to work with Kate, and she trusted her enough not to compromise any mission they had.

It was always nice to be trusted, Buffy thought with a pang, thinking about Spike – but it wasn’t always necessary.

When the detective herself finally showed up, on foot around the corner – presumably with her car parked elsewhere – Buffy definitely had some questions all the same.

“Hey,” Kate greeted as she walked up the sidewalk. Riley and Sam weren’t with her, but Buffy assumed that just meant they’d done the expected and jet-setted off somewhere glamorous. “Why’re you waiting out here?” Doing her own double-take on Cordelia’s hair, then, her expression dropped from an easy-going smile to a tense almost-frown. “Oh,” she said, coming to a halt. “Hi.”

“Hey,” Cordy replied, looking equally awkward.

“So, uh,” Buffy mediated, throwing the question Kate’s way as a hint, “you guys know each other?” She tried not to get any accusation into her voice, because she liked Kate, didn’t she? She’d given her a job, which was what she really needed, and she’d fixed the Warren problem, even though Buffy was really, really not grateful he was dead.

Also, from the gloomy look of acceptance on Kate’s face, it seemed like she needed a friend. “Yeah,” she said. “I probably should’ve mentioned that – but,” she defended, meeting Buffy’s eyes with that beguilingly clear blue. “I figured it was the last thing you needed to worry about, after Tara caught me up on where you were going. It didn’t seem like the time.”

 _Oh,_ Buffy thought. _Well._ That was nice, wasn’t it? Kind of thoughtful, really. It didn’t matter so much what had happened in the past, did it, because they had a whole new can of worms to deal with now. From the non-committal expression on Cordelia’s face, it didn’t seem like this was going to be a problem. “I guess it’s a small world, huh?” she went for, with a hesitant sort of humour, willing to let it go and move on.

But then: “It’s funny,” Kate agreed, smiling in the night time like she didn’t want to cause any trouble. “And, you know,” she offered, as if it was part of the same joke, “I think we might have even met once, way back when.”

Thoughts diverted, Buffy blinked. _Really?_ she wondered. There were only a couple of times that could have been, unless Kate had been around that summer she’d tried to forget about, when she’d been Anne; or maybe when she was fourteen and there’d been that time at Bullock’s…

“Were you ever down here after a fugitive?” Kate interrupted her thoughts. “Teenage girl, wanted for murder?” She paused then, frowning as her joke went a little sour. Buffy knew exactly what she was feeling, a sinking feeling in her stomach. “I guess,” she began, looking at Buffy like she’d just realised they probably would have known each other a lot better than she’d thought. “She was strong, wasn’t she? Must’ve been…”

“A Slayer,” Buffy filled in, the memories coming back with a dull thud in her mind. Oh yeah, that hadn’t been a normal case. “Faith.” She remembered that time in LA, the red-hot need for revenge she’d been filled with and then Angel… Eyes closed as it all came back, she could remember Kate, couldn’t she? Yeah, she realised: she remembered the blonde detective-bitch who’d been getting in the way of everything, who’d been about to ruin it all…

Startled, Buffy shook her head, trying to clear it from that old rush of thoughts. Where was this coming from? Those impressions didn’t fit with the Kate she knew now, did they? The Kate back then had probably only been trying to get things done, and she’d been different, harder. Even if –

“Hang on,” Buffy said, pausing. There was definitely some accusation in her voice now. It was pretty much intentional. “Didn’t you try to kill Angel? Lock him up in a sunny cell?”

Cordelia coughed in surprise, but Buffy wasn’t distracted, met Kate’s eyes dead on as she looked back. As always, it was possible to recognise the steel of someone who’d shaken hands with death, only to walk away from it – but, this time, it didn’t make Buffy feel quite so reassured. “If a vamp had been playing you as much as he'd been me,” the cop said, lightly derisive, certainly not even ashamed. “You would’ve done the same.”

Now Buffy found herself thinking back to what the other woman had said in the sewer, about Warren. About necessity. About pulling the trigger on people when the time was right and you had to. It was a little bit frightening. In part of her brain, the ultra-deadly, cynical Slayer part, she could see the logic of how Kate had thought back then: Faith had been dangerous in her eyes, a superstrong murderer out on the loose, and Angel had been looking out for her. That had probably made him responsible, as far as Kate was concerned.

But Buffy – she could never have done what Kate had been going to do, could she? She didn’t like to think she’d be able to. Even with Faith and Angel, neither of whom she’d ever been able to think rationally about, make decisions about based on morals abstracted from feelings – neither of them had deserved to die whatever, right? That was what she believed? She valued life too highly. How else could it be worth it to do what she did – to die to save the world and all the crappy people in it?

She’d been wrong to want to kill Faith, Buffy knew. Hell, she hadn’t even been able to go through with it, at least when the bullets had started flying and it would have been possible to see Faith die. With Warren…

She wouldn’t have been able to go through with that, either, would she? That was why she felt kind of guilty that Kate had done in her defence, because, so she realised as she looked up, fresh eyes taking in Kate’s expression, she wouldn’t have been able to do the same.

“Hey,” Cordelia interrupted then, breaking the silence as it hung a few seconds too long. She looked bored. “Can we concentrate on what’s important here?” Apparently past attempts to kill Angel didn’t count; maybe she was too used to them. “We’ve got one burnt-out hotel, no way of getting in contact with the guys and, I don’t know about you, but I am freezing my ass off. Let’s get this show on the road!”

“Huh?” Kate replied, her eyes then very quickly becoming comically wide as she looked in the direction of the hotel. In profile, she seemed as approachable as always. Buffy wasn’t sure what that meant.

It didn’t really matter, did it? _For god’s sake, get over it,_ Buffy told herself, well aware that this stuff wasn’t what they needed to worry about right now. No one was dying today.

* * *

On the general agreement that they were hungry, that they were going to be waiting for Spike at some point anyway, and because Cordelia wanted a sweater before they spent the rest of the evening outside, the three of them headed back to chez Cordy as their first port of call. Food was had, complete with one ghost and one otherworldly boyfriend.

Said boyfriend seemed nice, if a little slow when it came to pop-culture references – including those Buffy had a feeling even Giles would have been able to understand. To be honest, most standard reference-references were a stretch as well, which got old fairly quickly. Buffy had a feeling it had moved on from old to unbearably ancient for Cordelia post-vacation, not least because she asked him to stay behind and guard the apartment when they’d all finished.

It did sort of make sense to have someone there in case the phone rang. But then…

“Are you sure you do not need my protection, princess?” he asked as they mounted up to leave. Yeah, Buffy decided. The made-for-TV-movie dialogue was seriously annoying. “If you encounter enemies before you find Angel…”

Maybe it was chivalry, but the look of it on his face made Buffy bristle. Ready by her side, Kate was already bristling. Cordelia looked at them both and apologised with a strained smile. “I’ll be fine, Groo,” she said, encouraging him to leave them alone. “Don’t worry. Buffy and Kate are – champions, really. Kate is, uh… She keeps order, like a sheriff. And Buffy – she slays wild beasts, like, all the time.” She ended a little desperately, “Drokken beasts included, even.”

“Truthfully?” Groo addressed Buffy then – and she had to admit he was very cute when he turned her way and she could see him face on. With the arms and the admiration and everything, he was definitely good-looking. In a disconcertingly Angel-like way. “I have never met a female drokken-lugg; we must hunt together, when this current peril has been resolved.”

And he was right back to being awkward. Buffy smiled as blandly as she could, certain that, whatever a drokken beast was, there was a long list of people she would ask to be her hunting partner before him.

“OK!” Cordelia declared, grabbing her jacket and opening the door. “Time to go. Keep safe, honey,” she called back over her shoulder as they left. Buffy let Kate lead the way out, forcing herself to act normally.

As they got into her car, Kate apparently couldn’t resist mentioning, “You know sheriffs do completely different things from what I do, right?” She was looking at Cordelia in the rear view mirror; Buffy got on with fastening her seatbelt in the passenger seat. Although, she did find the pedantry a little endearing. “Some duties overlap, but they’re different roles.”

“Yeah…” Cordy didn’t really agree as they pulled out of the complex’s parking lot. Apparently she was quite happy to treat Kate like something of an old, if distant, friend. “But, see, I’ve been explaining telephone lines by making comparisons with carrier pigeons, so I don’t think that was too bad.”

“What _is_ a drokken beast, anyway?” Buffy asked, buckled in and keen to prove she could be part of a friendly group. Because she could, couldn't she? “Or whatever it was Groo kept talking about over dinner,” she finished, a little less than charitable. Not that she had been bored by Cordelia’s boyfriend. “I mean…”

“It’s just a demon, I guess,” Cordelia answered as Buffy turned around in her seat. She didn’t seem to be taking it too badly. “Kinda nasty,” she added. “Killing one gives you major bragging points in Pylea – Groo’s home dimension, I mean. I figure they’re kind of like dragons.” She paused, shook herself. “And I have got to stop making analogies…”

“OK, so where am I going?” Kate asked as they apparently joined the freeway back into the centre of the city. The road was a hell of a lot more empty than on the way out.

Now analogy-free, Cordelia got into the road trip spirit and directed them. “Uh… Let’s try Gunn’s apartment first,” she suggested, leaning forward between the front seats. “He’s not gonna be home, but we can ask his neighbours if they’ve seen him or something. Then we can head to Wes’s place.”

And so they headed to Gunn’s apartment in its fairly unpleasant-looking neighbourhood. Not that Buffy could judge; she had a feeling this was the sort of place she’d be living if she was in the city rather than in the house price black hole that was the town of Sunnydale. Kate definitely had her cop face on as they pulled over to the curb; Buffy made sure she still had her stake in her sock and the one inside her jacket. ( _Are you really so different from her?_ a voice muttered darkly in her mind.)

“I guess we try the buzzer, huh?” Buffy asked to fill the silence as they climbed out of the car.

“Yup,” Cordelia confirmed, not sounding very optimistic. Also letting the silence return.

The buzzer panel for the building had spaces for names next to the buttons, with various pieces of white, yellowed and, oddly, pink pieces of paper tucked behind little Perspex panels. In most cases, including Gunn’s from what Buffy could tell, the writing had faded beyond recognition if it had ever been legible at all, and, in the others, either the paper or the Perspex panel was missing entirely.

“Man,” Kate commented as Cordelia unerringly pressed a button next to its own slip of curled paper, ink long gone in the Los Angeles sunshine. “Angel really needs to pay you guys a bigger salary.”

“Ha,” was all Cordelia responded with, as they waited for a complete lack of answer. “The agency would need to earn some money first… And Angel doesn’t pay us, anyway,” she added with a glance over her shoulder. “When he came back after his whole mid-unlife crisis we made Wes the boss. We have payroll software and everything.”

 _Unlife crisis?_ Buffy wasn’t sure she wanted to know. She didn’t really want to know anything anymore. “There’s no one home,” she observed, hoping to change the topic. From the look on Kate’s face, it was good idea. “Time for Plan B.”

Tilting her newly blonde head, Cordy waited a couple more seconds for Gunn not to answer, before she agreed, “Fine.” Instead of turning around, thoufg, she fearlessly jabbed the next buzzer down. “Here goes nothing.”

“What are you…?” Buffy began –

– but apparently the owner of 14E was waiting for a call, because they answered almost straight away. “Yeah?” the fuzzy voice came through the speaker, accompanied by the whine of old components.

“Hi,” said Cordelia, her ingratiating smile oozing from her voice. “I work with Charles Gunn, in 14F? He’s not been around and he’s not answering his buzzer. Have you seen him?”

“I ain’t seen nothing,” the voice very quickly replied, sounding like they were about to get off the line as quickly as possible.

Cordelia was a moment quicker. “He’s not in any trouble. I mean, not that I know of. He’s my friend – I’m really worried about him.” And in an instant she sounded choked up; Buffy vaguely remembered that she’d gone to LA to become an actress, back in ’99. Maybe she was better at faking than they’d all thought. “Please – if there’s anything you know, I’d appreciate it.”

The whirr coming from the speaker was the only indication 14E was still on the line. A few seconds more, and then they spoke. “All I know is he came home last week like hell was on his heels, packed a bag and was outta here. He’s gone. I don’t know no more.”

Buffy slumped as she took it in. Sighing, Cordy tried to say, “Thanks,” but the line was already dead.

“Well,” Kate summarised with the sarcasm Buffy really did find amusing. “I’m only a detective, but that seems suspicious to me.”

She couldn’t even keep from snorting in agreement. “I guess we go to Wesley’s?” she suggested. Buffy knew what the others were thinking. There wasn't really any point - if the gang was together, then Wesley's apartment would be just as empty as Gunn's. All the same, Buffy refused to worry about what they were going to do; she filled the silence. “If Gunn came home to get his stuff,” she added, trying to keep the silence broken, “at least we know they went somewhere, got safe?”

“Yeah,” Cordelia at least replied, even if it was in a downbeat tone. Her frown as they walked away from the apartment building said it all. “ _Somewhere_ , in a city of four million people. This is gonna go well.”

Kate said nothing.

“Come on,” Buffy encouraged as they got back into the car, trying not to feel desperate. “You’re an investigator. Kate’s a detective. I’m a – me. It can’t be so hard.” In the gloomy silence, a mildly Spike-like thought crossed her mind, which she meant to dismiss but in the end decided to go with. If only because it cheered her up. “And, hey,” she finished, “if it all goes wrong we can always send up the bat signal… Don’t you guys have that lobster thing on your card?”

* * *

The clock in Kate’s car was still saying two twenty-three, but by the time they reached Wesley’s apartment, in a significantly nicer part of town, Buffy was sure it had to be about time for Spike to start showing up. The roads were emptier at this time of night, at least coming into the city, and they were right in the lull between workers travelling home from their nine-to-fives and shift workers clocking off at the end of the night. It was a nice time, this part of the evening; there weren’t too many vamps around, so you could enjoy it, take a walk. In summer it was when you could really feel the heat of the day easing off.

It wasn’t summer right now, so what you felt was the harsher edge of the breeze setting in for the cold around two AM, but they didn’t have to worry about that yet. Buffy wasn’t going to worry.

She wasn’t even going to worry about the fact that Spike wasn’t there at Wesley’s apartment, no matter that it was time for him to be. She couldn’t keep her heart from sinking, but she insisted to herself there was no reason to be afraid.

In her mind, as they’d come around the corner, she’d seen him waiting for them on the sidewalk. His motorcycle had been cluttering up the path with its oily, stinky ways, but he’d been leaning against it, smoking, one eyebrow cocked as he asked her, non-verbally, what had taken her so long. Getting out of the car, she would have been able to tell him ‘nothing’, and he’d have spirited her away from the slow drag of the night, convinced her it was all a misunderstanding. And she would have been feeling fine.

As it was, they pulled over to empty, shadowy darkness, headlights revealing nothing but asphalt and paving stone. “Well, it doesn’t look like Spike’s here yet,” Kate said, stating the obvious. Buffy’s shoulder was aching. “You sure he’s coming?”

“You can count on it,” Buffy replied, even as the first twinges of despair began to creep into her thoughts. She was sure about this part, at least; Spike would be there. “But he said he might look around the hotel first,” she explained, wishing for a moment that she lived in a world where they all had cell phones. Then she could send him a text message, use all that txtspk and stuff, like the smiley faces, find out where he was. “That’s probably where he is now.” She finished by repeating, “I’m sure he’ll be here soon.” It bore repeating.

“What are we going to do until then?” Cordy asked from the backseat, sounding like she was pretty despondent as well. “Wait in the car?”

Shrugging, Buffy didn’t have much of a plan. “We could ring on Wesley’s buzzer just in case?” she suggested, not seeing anything else they could do. There was always the radio, but who knew what stations Kate was tuned into. Even with everything else, she gave off the (separately) worrying impression that she listened to mom music.

Kate herself was staring out of the windscreen, looking into the night as a sigh passed her lips. She had a slightly distant look on her face and Buffy wondered if she was remembering too many long nights back when she was a cop around here. It couldn’t have been that fun.

All in all, Buffy decided, trying to remember how not to give up, it was probably best if they kept moving. “Let’s try Wes,” she re-confirmed, undoing her seatbelt and moving to get out of the car. It spurred the others into action.

Whatever ‘burb (‘hood?) this was, it was pretty quiet, with no other cars on the road. The buzzers for the building were sheltered from the street by a brick porch, which had a light in it, yellow and bright over their heads. The panel itself was new-looking, in steel or aluminium or something else grey and shiny; _Wyndham-Price_ was written in enviable fountain pen cursive on a non-curled piece of card, behind glass. Kate said what Buffy was thinking. “I think Wesley’s keeping too much money for himself.”

“Yeah, well,” Cordelia retorted, though not as if her heart was in it. “We didn’t actually get _inside_ Gunn’s place. It might be nice.”

“Really?” Sure, Buffy could understand the idea of having cheap place with nice furniture – to be honest, that was kind of what she would prefer for her and Dawn – but Gunn’s area had not been a great place to be living. “Are you sure he doesn’t have debts instead?” she suggested, trying to think why he would be there. “It looked like a debtsy place to me.”

Cordelia, apparently their official button pusher, was already pushing the Wyndham-Price button by this point, but she kept talking anyway, clearly expecting as little as the others were. “I guess that could be it… But what debts is he gonna have? He was living at no permanent address or whatever before he started working with us. Now he’s, you know, solvent.”

“Uh, I don’t know, Cordy,” Buffy replied, feeling the slightest flare of the irritation she thought she’d left behind in high school. Dammit, but she was getting tired. “Life stuff debts? Hospital bills? Transportation?” _The stuff you end up with if you don’t live in a swanky apartment rent-controlled by a ghost who happens to adore you._

“Gee, I’m sorry,” came the unapologetic reply as Cordelia rolled her eyes. Maybe she was tired too. “I forget we added financial difficulty to the list of things you know best on.”

Just as Buffy was working through a reply to _that_ completely uncalled-for remark, a voice sounded from the speaker on the buzzer panel. “Cordelia?” it asked, quiet and a little nervous-sounding. “Is that you?”

All three of them paused, turning to stare at the source of Wesley’s voice. Now _that_ was unexpected.

“Wes?” Cordelia asked, raising her voice slightly for the microphone or whatever she was speaking into. She sounded perkier immediately, hope returning. “Are you – oh my god, Wes; I didn’t think we’d find you. Is everybody there? I’m here with Buffy and Kate Lockley – you remember her, right? Is Angel OK? Connor? We saw what happened to the hotel…”

Maybe it was because she’d seen how much of a mess Wesley had been before, but there was a sinking feeling in Buffy’s stomach as Cordelia trailed off to a very empty silence. Eventually Wesley spoke again, but he only confirmed what Buffy had feared. “The others aren’t here,” he said with short and brittle words.

Cordelia looked shocked. Kate looked at Buffy, assessing her lack of surprise, which Buffy was sure showed on her face.

Wesley sounded like he had the last time Buffy had been in LA: overwhelmed by stress. Some of the stuff had been sorted out, she knew, with the prophecy and the chatty burger, enough that he’d celebrated his relief with them – but she also knew you couldn’t fix everything in a day, and it seemed inevitable now, depressingly inevitable, that Wesley had not. _Just great._ “Wes,” she asked soberly, “can we come in?” She wanted to tell him that they were going to fix things, but, honestly, she wasn’t sure if they’d be able to. Some things were doomed to fall apart, weren’t they? “Spike’s on his way,” she went for instead, not that she had any reason to believe this news would cheer Wesley up. It was mostly a reminder for herself. “I said we’d meet him here.”

For a moment Wesley didn’t reply. The quirk of Kate’s eyebrows made Buffy think she might have blown it, but then he was muttering, “Of course you did,” and the door started making a wonderfully annoying buzz.

Even in her shock, Cordelia immediately seized the handle and opened the door. “Thanks, Wes,” she said as they went inside, sounding more subdued. It looked like she really had been away for a long time.

The trip up the elevator was easy, almost comfortable. It wasn’t quite so luxurious inside the apartment building as the exterior promised – the paintwork in the lobby was old and there was dust in the corners of the elevator car – but then Buffy couldn’t be certain whether she was only noticing because of the spotless Wolfram and Hart experience she’d had earlier in the day.

Wesley was waiting by his door when they came down the landing, but he mostly looked like a stain on the wallpaper. Dressed in grey, and definitely not a nice grey, he needed a shave just as much as he’d needed one two weeks ago, perhaps moreso, and his eyes behind his glasses were punctuated by dark circles and lines.

“Wes!” Cordy cried out, rushing to meet him. “Are you OK? What’s going on? You look terrible.”

More cautiously, Buffy approached with Kate not far from her side. “Are you all right, Wesley?” she asked for herself.

“Oh yes,” Wesley replied darkly, opening his door again behind him. “Angel and I had a minor disagreement, that’s all.” Even without her on-going training in British irony, Buffy had a feeling she’d have been able to catch the sarcasm. It did not bode well. Though Wesley still had the courtesy to add, “Hello Kate,” as they followed him through the door.

When they were inside the apartment, it became quite obvious what the disagreement had been about – and Buffy’s first thoughts were that Angel had almost certainly been in the right.

Cordelia’s mouth was open in shock. Buffy spoke for her. “What the hell is _he_ doing here?”

Wesley didn’t stop moving, but continued to the dining table, picking up empty plates and taking them to the sink. “Now, Buffy, there’s no need for that,” he said. “He’s really not having a very good time of it at the moment.”

There was nothing Buffy could do but stare. There in Wesley’s apartment, politely stood up from the dining table and looking almost as haggard as his host, more haggard than he’d seemed earlier, was Captain Daniel Holtz.


	13. Handing the Keys over to Nixon.

“OK…” Buffy said, meeting Daniel’s eyes for a moment before she looked back over to Wesley. He wanted her to be calm. She could do calm. “Tell me this,” she tried, keeping her voice steady. “What the hell is going on?”

On either side of her, Kate and Cordelia looked just as bemused; on Kate it came across as sardonic, while Cordy had gone with nothing but outright shock. “I second that,” she said. “Wes…” She followed him as he turned to the sink, lowered her voice. In the small space they could all hear what she was saying. “Seriously, what is he doing here? Does Angel know? Because he is not gonna be happy…”

There was the sound of crockery crunching together as Wesley expressed himself with plates. “I shan’t imagine Angel knows, no,” he spat, storming back into the living space where Buffy and the others were still standing awkwardly. “Since he has made it quite clear he wants nothing to do with me, I’m not certain it’s any of his business.”

Buffy frowned, trying to work out where that had come from. When she’d met Daniel the last time, he’d seemed pretty dead-set on killing Angel - because he wanted revenge, but also, so he’d tried to argue reasonably, because he didn’t trust any vampire around a baby. It was kind of unclear if that had changed - and now he was here, with Wesley, who had... He’d almost been thinking the same thing, hadn't he? He’d been convinced by his books that Angel was going to hurt Connor, not by his own raging fundamentalism, but, more than that, he’d thought and said that Daniel was a good person, like he was someone they were meant to talk to rather than an evil demon to be beaten up and killed.

Well, Buffy supposed, this was certainly talking to him.

Angel would never have been on board with this. Not now, and almost certainly not before. Even if he was all for saving people, Buffy knew he had his limits. After the whole blood-switching business with Connor and Angel’s food, Daniel had pretty much gone through those limits with no route back. Talking to the man who’d done that would be enough in Angel’s eyes…

But then, Buffy thought, biting her lip as he gaze wandered around Wesley’s apartment – which was much, much tidier than it had been the last time – did it really make sense that Daniel would have done the switching with the blood? It didn’t make sense that he would threaten Connor in that way, rather than go with something more direct.

 _And yet_ he'd been at Wolfram and Hart - and…

“Seriously,” she added out loud, breaking through her circling thoughts to stare Daniel down once again. He didn’t seem so broken, in the end – just defeated. “Here’s the thing I can’t get over. I mean,” she explained, “we haven’t really discussed this, so you’re gonna have to correct me if I’m wrong, but…” Even as he stood up to her scrutiny, there remained something dangerous in Daniel, the same edge to his personality as he’d had before, like his actions would be unpredictable. “Didn’t you burn down Angel’s hotel? Like, recently?” That was the thing, wasn’t it? Even if she realised now that she, Cordy and Kate – and Spike – had all pretty much avoided talking about it in concrete terms, there weren’t many other suspects. “And you were at Wolfram and Hart,” she added, not wanting that part to go without saying. “I saw you.”

Looking a little surprised by this, Daniel paused for a moment – but then deflated, sinking back into his chair and rubbing his face with his hands. “I was at the lawyers’ because of Sahjhan,” he explained to Wesley, mostly, though his eyes darted Buffy’s way every now and then. “My actions thus far have failed to satisfy him and his desire for destruction, and so he has begun to act on his own.” Wesley himself was standing next to Cordelia, looking curious about this development, which he apparently hadn’t known about. Buffy wasn’t sure what Daniel meant. “He had some dealings with a woman there, a Miss Morgan, and I wanted to know what.”

“Lilah,” Wesley groused, crossing his arms and apparently all too aware of who this woman was. “We probably have her to blame for Angel’s dietary fiasco…” Buffy assumed he meant the blood-swapping with that remark, which at least explained something? “But I suppose she told you nothing at all?”

“She would not be persuaded to discuss the matter, no,” Daniel confirmed, dropping his eyes to the table. “Our meeting was fruitless.”

“Question,” Cordy piped up, holding a finger to the air where she sat on the back of the couch. “Who’s Sahjhan?”

Buffy was glad someone had asked that question so she didn’t have to. “Yeah,” she simply agreed instead, still pretty much lost.

Shaking his head, Daniel explained, “Sahjhan is the demon who transported me through time after I swore to him I would seek revenge on Angel.” He described his past self as though he was talking about someone else. “We made an arrangement.”

And that had gone as well as could be expected, clear. Buffy groaned. Why did these things always get more complicated?

Apparently over this, Wesley gestured dismissively. “Holtz and Sahjhan have parted ways,” he insisted, optimistically blunt, like this meant they were supposed to cut the guy some slack. “Whatever Holtz has done, Sahjhan could do much worse: he’s the real threat we should be on the lookout for.”

“Great; so what do we do now?” Cordelia asked, with a perky sort of sarcasm. Buffy kept her mouth shut and let her speak, not quite sure what she made of this yet. “Can this guy be killed? Let’s do that.”

“To contain Sahjhan,” Daniel intoned, “we need a Resikhian Urn. It will contain his essence indefinitely, if the correct rituals are observed.”

 _Awesome,_ Buffy thought. _I’ll add that to my shopping list._ “Before we get too far ahead of ourselves,” she said out loud, “and, really, I’m sorry if I’m being kind of slow, here, but you _burned down_ Angel’s hotel. The whole Angel Investigations HQ. People’s home.” Looking around, she didn’t seem to be bringing anyone but Cordy with her on this (Kate just looked tired), but she couldn’t let it go. “Can we not talk about that a little? As in… _What?_ ”

“I did not know it was home to anyone but the vampire,” he began, as if that made it OK. Then at least he started stumbling over his words, “Until, I confess, that is…” For a moment he hesitated, looking at Wesley with a certain amount of suspicion on his face. Buffy had no idea what that was about, still caught up on the way they were letting go his attempted murder of Angel. Maybe they had to, if he did feel bad about it; maybe they were meant to be moving on – but something didn’t feel right to her, even if she couldn’t work out why. “We investigated after the fact,” Daniel continued, still not speaking smoothly. Honestly, he looked pained. “Justine and I disagreed…”

He shook his head, saying no more, so Buffy looked at Wesley, who was scowling at her. It was like she’d disappointed him with her manners or something, but she didn’t know what to make about that. Surely even if they gave Daniel a pass on the recovery train, that didn’t meant she had to like him? Or treat him like he hadn’t recently wanted people dead? “The hotel was a turning point,” Wesley then spoke up, uninformatively. “The last act he and his followers committed against Angel. Can we leave it there?”

From the way he was twitching, Buffy got the impression Wesley was suggesting this mainly because he knew about as much as she did: not very much at all. And wasn’t that just wonderful?

Seriously, Buffy tried to work out, at what point had Wesley the paranoid ex-Watcher decided to take on faith that Daniel the anti-vampire zealot was having a real moral crisis? Why was he so much more convinced than her? Not that she was _un_ convinced, but there was still so much information Daniel was clearly holding back.

Apparently this question showed on her face, because Wesley smiled, wryly. “I was ostracised for simply talking to the man,” he explained, like he'd given up. “It seemed I might as well listen to him, if only to get my money’s worth.”

So… He was listening to Daniel as some way of getting back at Angel and convincing himself this was all worthwhile.

Buffy looked at Kate, not much caring anymore about the disagreement the other woman didn’t even know they’d had. With this situation, Buffy just really wanted someone to give her an idea of what to do. Because – “This is actually ridiculous,” she found herself saying, shocked and shaking her head. “Totally and completely.”

Her mouth thinning, the other woman said nothing, but the quirk of her eyebrow seemed to express the idea, _Yeah, well; this is why I have rules. Maybe you think they’re harsh, but you can’t run your life like this._

Before Buffy could decide whether she agreed, Wesley interrupted. “And what is it you suggest we do?” he snapped, the lines on his face even more pronounced as he clenched his jaw. “Since you took it upon yourself to invite everybody here, what is it you propose for the rest of the evening?”

Affronted, Buffy glared at him, then looked away briefly to the clock on the mantelpiece. It was getting late, she decided. Later than she wanted it to be – and she was tired of waiting. “Well, since Spike should have been here by now, there’s clearly something happening where we aren’t. I say we go back to the hotel and try and find him, before we all lose our minds from whatever fumes are _clearly_ being smoked in this apartment.”

“Uh,” Cordelia cut in before Wesley could reply. “Are you sure that’s the best plan? It’s not exactly likely we’re gonna…”

“It’s a great plan,” Buffy spoke over her. They couldn’t stay here, she decided. It was too hard to think and she was getting the overwhelming urge to smash things.

“Good, yes,” Wesley agreed with her, though his motives for wanting them out of his apartment were pretty clear. “Go. I’ll send Spike after you if he turns up.”

Looking upset now, Cordelia turned to him and tried to mediate. “Wes…” she pleaded, and she at least managed to draw out something approaching a conflicted expression.

“Oh, you’re coming with us,” Buffy told him anyway, because he was the one who’d asked her for a plan. She looked over to Daniel too, making sure he realised he was included. As far as she was concerned, this situation was getting fixed up tonight, so that she could get gone home in the morning for some peace and quiet. Finally. “You’ve gotta talk this out with Angel sometime,” she added, in case they were still reasonable. “Might as well come along and find him now.”

Either her skills in persuasion were better than she remembered or everyone really was one step from giving up, because, after some demurring, they agreed.

* * *

There wasn’t much to say as the Katemobile wended its way through the traffic. Now that she wasn’t staring Wesley in the face, it was easier for Buffy to think about the possibility that Daniel might in fact be feeling guilty about what he’d done – but she still wasn’t sure what opinion she was supposed to have about it. She knew she counted herself as someone who cared about guilt, about people and their rehabilitation, but it was difficult. How could she feel nothing now that she’d seen the shell of the Hyperion, when she could remember everything he’d said about Angel? How much was she supposed to take on faith? At some point, surely, she’d just be gullible to believe him.

Looking over to Kate in the driving seat, Buffy wondered what it was like for her. It sounded like she didn’t have to think about these things, because all she needed to do was react, follow protocol based on events as they revealed themselves. Maybe that was easier.

But Buffy couldn’t ever do the same, could she? So much of slaying vampires was preventative; it was about catching them as they came out of the ground, before they hurt someone. Maybe that was a numbers thing, because there was only one of her and she couldn’t patrol everywhere all the time – but it was also because a vampire’s factory setting was, well, evil, so there wasn’t any point in waiting until the danger came.

When it came down to it, Buffy had to make a choice and draw the line with demons. Spike was different, because the Initiative had cut him off from killing and because he’d made himself that way, but that was an exception and understood it. A vampire on the street could kill someone, _would_ kill someone and never give a damn; Spike couldn’t, for a start, and she trusted that he wouldn't do much more than hoard some evil eggs, believe that he’d done right, listen to her tell him he’d done wrong - not do it again. She judged everything she fought before they made a move.

With humans, though, with people who had souls and consciences, she couldn’t do that. All too often they would do something, something terrible, then turn around and tell you, ‘sorry’, actually feel it. The probability they woudl was all too great; she couldn't justify herself acting pre-emptively. She had to... What?

Sighing, Buffy let the side of her head fall against the window. With her eyes closed, she almost felt like she could put up with its rumbling and rattling for the chance to rest and sleep, but she also knew that wasn’t going to happen. And so she shook herself, forcing her eyes to look out once more into the city and the empty night-time streets. They swept by the window steadily, all long runs of grey windows and doorways and commercial premises.

Eventually, around Echo Park, they hit some traffic, which practically brought them to a standstill. There was work or something going on the road up ahead; Buffy wasn’t paying much attention. The lack of movement meant she was watching people instead of buildings, but that was OK. It still took her mind off things.

About halfway through a traffic jam, something caught her eye. It was a motorcycle, parked in an alleyway out of the light like its owner didn’t want it to be seen. More than that, it was familiar. The decoration wasn’t quite standard, had the addition of chains and spikes, which weren’t so obvious against the metal chassis, but were more than noticeable when you were looking for them. Though she couldn’t quite tell in the low light, Buffy thought she could see where the seat had been ripped once and repaired, the result of one careless owner with razor claws and one careful owner with a lot of experience mending leather. The line of the seat covering wasn’t quite smooth around the back, so there was a visible difference where the top half of the leather panel caught the light, an inky-petrol colour while the lower half was just straight black.

All right, so the more she stared the more Buffy was pretty sure she was seeing things, but she was going to call slayerly instinct and say that the bike was Spike’s motorcycle. She’d been on it enough times that she could imagine herself climbing on in her mind’s eye, and there didn’t seem to be anything out of place. Also, this was a way better lead than chasing breadcrumbs of nothing at the Hyperion.

“Hey,” she said to Kate, tapping her finger against the window. “That’s Spike’s bike. He’s around here somewhere.”

“Are you sure?” Kate asked, like she wanted to be certain before she turned off the main street, although the grateful expression on her face implied that she would accept any excuse to get out of this jam.

Cordelia sounded like she didn’t want to go out into the cold without a good reason. “How can you tell?” she asked.

“I can’t tell one hundred percent without getting closer,” Buffy replied, taking another look at the motorcycle. “But I think it could be – and he’s gotta be around here someplace, hasn’t he?”

After a moment’s hesitation, Kate sighed, accepting that they were going to go with this. “OK,” she said, looking around for ways out of the traffic. “I’m gonna need to park somewhere, so you go ahead. If it’s not his then you can probably get back here before I lose my place. We’re gonna have to meet back at the alleyway anyway,” she added, “else we’re gonna lose each other.”

“Right.” Buffy nodded, unbuckling. Remembering who else was in the car, she turned to the backseat before she got out and asked, “D’you wanna come with me, Cor?”

Cordelia looked out of the window herself, crinkling her nose as she weighed up her options. “There’s no rush, I guess, is there? I think I’ll stay with Kate in case you can’t find him and we have to keep going.”

That sounded fair enough to Buffy. “OK,” she accepted, climbing out of the car into the rumble of the traffic jam, nimbly cutting between the two cars in the next lane to get over onto the sidewalk.

Closer inspection of the bike told her as much as she’d deduced in the car: as far as she could judge, it was Spike’s. The alley was a dead end, so that left her with two directions to choose from. Turning back to the road, she gave Kate and Cordy a thumbs up, in the hope they were looking out for one. Hopefully Wesley and Daniel were watching her for some sort of sign as well, though she’d lost track of which SUV with the tinted windows was Wesley’s.

Trusting her latent vampire-hunting instincts, not to mention the likelihood of tinglies when Spike was nearby, Buffy paused for a moment, then turned and started walking back the way they'd just come.

* * *

It was time to be getting on. This much, Spike knew. Buffy would have been expecting him at the Watcher’s for a while now, but he was still hanging around Angel’s hide-out, trying to decide what to do. The easiest thing would be to leave and come back, but – and most likely this was too many years of experience talking – he didn’t quite trust Angel to stay put. It was just as likely the old git would get it into his own and everybody else’s head that they’d be safer on the hoof, lost somewhere absolutely secret. And then they’d never be found again.

So that was why Spike was keeping guard outside the warehouse, having a smoke of some illicit cigarettes he’d nicked from the petrol station on the way up. He shouldn’t have been so weak, really, but the smoke was filling his throat very nicely indeed, and if the bloke at the till was dozy enough to fall for the old ‘a packet of Reds’ – quick sleight of hand – ‘and that was a packet of Reds, mate, did you get that; nah, wait, don’t bother; I’m giving up’… Well, he deserved to be ripped off, didn’t he?

With any luck, he’d have them all smoked before he got home and Dawn would never know. To Sunnydale, he meant, not Revello Drive. It really was more than his unlife’s worth to start thinking about 1630 as home, he was sure of it. Even if he was between domiciles at this precise moment in time…

Thinking of Revello, while he had his smoke, was clearly setting Spike’s mind in free-association mode, because just at that moment he caught something on the breeze. It smelt, funnily enough, like the very slightest scent of Eau de Summers making its way towards him.

_Oh, thank God._

Dropping the end of his fag to the gravel and crushing it reflexively with one of his new boots, Spike immediately headed out from behind the warehouse into the gravel yard, to get a better whiff. There was definitely something in the air, he decided. In any case, it was all too likely that Buffy had got bored waiting for him, so it definitely seemed like a good plan to sod Angel and make sure the person he actually cared about didn’t get lost trying to find him in the middle of LA. Quite how she’d got this close, he didn’t know, unless she’d run into Sneezy the demon as well, but that didn’t matter.

Out of the yard, he was back on the road, heading the way he’d come. It hadn’t been a very long walk from his bike, and he only had to turn one corner before he saw her.

She was stalking down the pavement with a determined frown on her face, like a leopard chasing down a rogue gazelle. She wasn’t looking where she was going, but concentrated on the other side of the road at every side street and alleyway she passed – the complete wrong direction. It took everything in him not to burst out laughing at her cute little earnest expression, especially after Angel's grumping; he was filled with the urge to run down the pavement like a bloody fool, spin her up into his arms before she had a chance to complain about the melodrama. It wasn’t fair that the sense of her already had him bouncing on his toes.

Miracle of miracles, she looked the right way at that moment and her big eyes widened to see him, twenty-five yards in front of her. “You aren’t gonna find me over there!” Spike yelled now the jig was up, grinning as he nodded to the other side of the road.

“Spike!” came her surprised reply, and he took that as his cue to close the gap between them, at a brisk pace which in no way resembled a run but matched her speed entirely. “You’re here.” Buffy spoke more softly when they were at last in touching distance, holding up her right arm as if to do just that, or maybe give him a hug.

Finally this close to her again, Spike didn’t give one fuck about avoiding melodrama. Given how often they shagged, snogged and generally lived in each other’s bodily fluids, he didn’t think it was taking too much of a liberty to greet her by looping his arms around her waist and lifting her up against him, tipping his head back a touch to encourage one long smack of a hello kiss. It sent shivers right through him, and if that wasn’t how a bloke was meant to start an evening of dealing with bollocks from his grandsire, he didn’t know what was.

Once he’d taken the lead, Buffy was more than happy to follow up, closing her arms – both arms, he noticed – around his neck and sliding down the front of him so they could stand for a more substantial snog. He was feeling almost breathless by the time she pulled away, panting as she rested her forehead against his. “Well, that was – wow,” she said, smiling so widely he was helpless to do anything but smile back. “Remind me I’m not allowed to go twelve hours without that again.”

“Is that all?” he murmured, sounding like a prat as he ran his right hand up and down her back, dragging shivers out of her. She still had the brace on, by the feel of it, but presumably Slayer healing was working its magic the more that time went by.

Nuzzling her head into his shoulder, it felt like Buffy wanted nothing more than a good snooze. She was likely still on her painkillers. “Yep,” she confirmed his ramblings about how long they’d been apart. “Probably less, actually, and we still have stuff to do.” Reluctantly, then, Spike had to let her pull back and nod her head up the street. “Kate and Cordelia should be back that way, along with some extra special guests. We’re meeting by your bike, for real this time.” She sighed. “We're gonna have to…”

He hiked a thumb over his shoulder as she lapsed into silence. “Angel and co. are holed up in a warehouse thataway,” he told her; she glanced around his head. “Let’s pick up your lot and get on with the show, yeah?”

“Sure,” she agreed, an ironic lilt to her voice, like she'd missed daft stuff like him. “Although, d’you think Angel’s gonna come out of the shadows or just keep stalking you like a big stalker guy?”

Startled, Spike whipped around. Sure enough, Angel was lurking at the end of the street, only now emerging from the shadows. He couldn’t have been there for very long, but Spike cursed himself for letting the git get upwind. It might have been necessary to find a certain Slayer, but it wasn’t good for keeping face. He tried to brazen it out. “All right, Grandpa?” he yelled down the street. For some reason the shout made Buffy freeze up; she started wrenching on his sleeve. “Best get a move on; we’re off to see your…” He trailed off, turning to face Buffy. “What?”

Cringing, she murmured an explanation. “That’s not gonna be the best idea,” she said, just as Angel started to stiffly head their way. “The special guests? They're Wes and Holtz…”

“Oh, bloody hell,” Spike swore, trying not to raise his voice. This wasn’t going to go well. “You might have mentioned that,” he accused.

“Sorry!” Buffy tilted up her hands at the wrists in the miniaturised gesture of apology; he was so pathetic he couldn’t even feel angry with her. Especially when she added, “You were very distracting.”

And she looked like she needed it: the crease-lines of anxiety were setting in on her face. “Yeah, well,“ he tried quickly as Angel approached, not sure what else to say. Last thing he needed was for them both to be nervous. “Let’s get out of this mess first and then I’ll distract you a bit more, all right?” She jabbed him in the ribs for that remark – but it _did_ make her snort, so he felt a little better.

It didn’t endear either of them to Angel, when he came into talking distance. “What are you so happy about?” he asked truculently.

“Nothing,” Buffy replied quickly, apparently far more sensible than Spike was feeling. “Come on,” she added, shutting down the conversation as she started leading the way back to bike.

It didn’t take long to get there, but Spike was on edge the whole way as he walked next to Angel, especially after he and Buffy had got through the requisite hellos. “You gonna explain why you were following me, then?” he asked when he couldn’t take it anymore.

“I was actually coming to talk to you,” Angel told him, supercilious to the max. He had Buffy to show off for now. “I thought you might’ve got the wrong impression – but then you started tracking something, so I thought I should see what it was. I didn’t know it was gonna be Buffy.”

But he’d been worried what Spike was going to say to her, that much was certain. Spike could see it churning in his eyes, the worry that he might have shared his plans about killing Holtz, either in cold blood or just lukewarm. Saint Angel the Holy Martyr didn’t want any rumour like that getting near his reputation, even if it was true.

It was all daft, so Spike made no comment and grunted instead. It sounded like they were going to be seeing Holtz soon enough, and then things would be out of Spike’s hands. None of that helped his nervousness, but he had more than a century’s practice keeping a lid on nerves, so he did.

A minute later, and they were at the bike, as yet without company. If he and Buffy had been on their own it would have been a prime opportunity for another canoodle, or a bit more of a catch up than they’d been able to have on the phone, but they weren’t so it wasn’t. Spike checked his oil instead, just to have something to do with his hands.

“Um,” Buffy said awkwardly. “They should be here soon.” Then it was Angel’s turn to grunt.

They waited a little while longer. Naturally, by sheer sod’s law, it was Wesley and Holtz who arrived first. And that was when everything started going wrong.

“You!” Angel growled at the man Spike assumed had to be Holtz. Everything froze; Spike found himself filled with that horrible dream-like sense of slow motion, all his limbs turned to jelly as he panicked. Because this was the moment he'd been dreading, wasn't it? The moment he'd seen coming.

Holtz and Wesley, who looked like an absolute wreck, even if Spike did say so himself, were clearly surprised to see Angel there. They were frozen in the alley’s entrance, just across from where Spike was standing by his bike, near the other wall. They weren’t going to react in time, to whatever happened.

But what was happening? Flipping his head round, Spike saw Buffy’s equal look of shock – because clearly, no, she wasn’t aware of the hotel fire’s specifics, Connor’s place in it all. Either that or she grossly underestimated Angel’s taste in revenge. Next to her was the vampire himself, demon face full-on and threatening, all yellow eyes and fangs.

There was a split second before Angel leapt, every ounce of vampire strength and speed aiding him. In less time, something in Spike’s mind must have made the decision, though when he thought about it afterwards he didn’t quite remember thinking it through. A second more and Holtz would have been a dying man, a few more seconds and he would have been gone – but those second didn’t happen. Spike was faster, fast enough, shoving his way towards the man quicker than Angel could cross the few yards between himself and his prey. What should have been a killing pounce instead brought him smack into Spike’s hands, arms, upper body, barrelling him into the wall.

Winded, Spike shoved and sent Angel reeling away from him. As time rushed back to normal, he heard the roaring. _“I’ll kill you! I’ll fucking kill you!”_ At least he'd called that one right.

All the humans there had good reaction times and they were catching up now. Buffy’s eyes were on Angel; Wesley’s eyes were on him – Spike was meeting them, checking the other man was safe – and Holtz…

Right at Spike’s side, it took an instant for Holtz to recognise the threat to his life. The thing was, it turned out, this gnarly little man from another time was used to such things, even when he was on the edge, and he had come prepared. There was a crossbow in his hands and in a moment the point of its wooden bolt was pressing into Spike’s chest. The prick of pressure, pain was on his left hand side, right over where his old heart wasn’t beating.

In front of him, inches away, was Holtz. Spike didn’t know how that had happened, but there he was. “Come any closer,” he threatened, the words intended for Angel and sent back over his shoulder, where he was looking, “and I’ll kill him. You’ll have the blood of us both on your hands.”

 _Oh, fuck._ Yeah, he'd called this, but he hadn't seen far enough ahead, clearly.

Panicking now and not even ashamed of it, Spike looked over Holtz’s shoulder to Angel’s face. It was still fangy; his eyes were still yellow – but for a moment it was possible to communicate. _Please,_ Spike found himself thinking, the pressure of the bolt far more real, unwavering, unaffected than anything he’d felt before. The chip was already loosing warning charges, right along with the adrenaline – not quite enough to harm, but enough that every flicker of thought about escaping came with a caution. This was going to hurt, he realised, whatever happened.

Spike had almost forgotten about the chip. All his time was spent with Buffy, where it didn’t work, or with demons, where it wasn’t meant to. How had he forgotten about the chip? It was possible he could force Holtz’s arm somewhere less threatening and push past him, but he’d be on the floor immediately, defenceless. Doomed.

 _Please,_ he thought again, involuntarily. Why did his plans always go wrong?

There was no mercy in Angel’s expression, however. He seemed to be weighing up his options, his chance for revenge against Spike’s chance for survival. It only took a couple of seconds' growling for him to decide.

One hundred and twenty years of a mistake set against a month or two of a miracle. Spike felt like he should have known he didn’t stand a chance. It was written all over Angel’s face. _You know what?_ he was thinking, responding to Holtz’s threat, gaze returning to the man's throat. _I don’t care._

Some part of him already deader than his body, Spike shut his eyes, accepting whatever happened next.


	14. Welcome to the Doublemeat Palace.

The first time Angel moved, Buffy was too slow to stop him. Her heart almost burst out of her chest when Spike tackled him backwards, not sure at all what he was doing, but then it was just hammering. From where she was, not far from Angel where he stumbled, she could see the crossbow against Spike’s heart, right over the new jacket she still needed to decide whether she liked. She could see Spike’s face – the fear setting in.

“Come any closer and I’ll kill him. You’ll have the blood of us both on your hands.”

She heard the words, but it took a moment to understand. Her gaze turned to Angel, vamp-faced Angel, with the threat still heavy in the stance of his body. Then she realised what the words meant. Her first thought was that it would be OK, that they could make this work, but it was less than a second before she realised that Angel was still waiting to pounce and that he was still going to.

The moment when he decided he didn’t care about Spike was yet another moment when she realised she really, really did. It felt like the air she had in her lungs was choking her, like her heart was being sucked inside its own black hole. _Oh, hello Love. I didn’t miss you much._ For an instant, it felt like Spike was already dead and she was dying with it, wounded with the pain.

Sometimes it was a curse, how her fight or flight instincts were honed beyond natural ability. Today it was a blessing. Buffy was moving before Angel’s feet had inched from the ground, before his growl had even finished. No nonsense, she punched him in the face with one violent southpaw slug, knocking him to the ground as the impact jarred up into the core of her wounded shoulder. Like she gave a crap. “You don’t even _think_ about it!” she yelled at him, painful shrieky tones colouring her voice as the air rushed up her throat. “Stay _down!_ ”

Remorse had to be rushing through Angel right then, if not despair, because his face was slipping back to human, the bruise right now only a light red mark spreading out across his cheek. “What’s the matter with you, Holtz?” he was spitting anyway, not looking at Buffy where she stood guard, ready to hurt him again. “First you try to kill us all; now you’ve got cold feet? He’s a _vampire_. You shouldn’t care!”

“ _No,_ ” Buffy breathed, feeling all the pain again. She had no way of knowing if Holtz knew, no way of knowing if his knowing would make a difference. It didn’t make a difference to her, but the world always escaped how she saw things in her head.

Her eyes shot straight to Spike’s where he was staring at her, looking like someone had told him a joke he didn’t understand. _Christ, I’m gonna die,_ was written all over his face. _I’m gonna die for saving this bastard._ The worst part was that she had no way of telling him what that meant to her, how much she loved him, how she had enough pride in him to make her sick. How did he know what she was thinking, what she wanted? Because this was it, wasn’t it, protecting Holtz? In the end it always would be – and Spike, he knew that.

 _Try and judge me now, world,_ she found the thought haring wildly through her mind. _Tell me this guy’s a bad one. Try it and watch me slit your throat._

Through the silence and the stalemate, Daniel spoke. “I didn’t know,” he said softly, almost apologetically. His arm never dropped and his posture didn’t relax, but he was stable, not murderous, for the moment. “Until I saw them run, I didn’t know the girl and the child were inside.”

“What?” Wesley spoke for both of them, looked as confused as Buffy felt when she spared a glance his way. And Kate and Cordelia, there were there too now, silent at the mouth of the alleyway, both nothing more than shocked and confused by what was going on. “What girl?” Wes kept on talking, his voice strangled.

“Fred was with Connor,” Angel hissed, climbing to his feet. Her eyes trained on him, Buffy let him stand up, so long as every movement remained slow and steady. “They were in the hotel when Holtz and his cronies burned it down. Barely got away.”

He was turning Wes against Holtz, Buffy could read that much from what was going on. She didn’t understand how she was supposed to feel about the rest of it. Fred and Connor had been inside the hotel when Daniel had set it on fire? Hadn't they all been assuming he’d done it with the intent to kill anyway, if only Angel? Had she missed that part of everybody’s thinking?

But apparently this eventuality hadn’t quite crossed Wesley’s mind, because he looked dangerous. “Fred?” he asked, still monosyllabic, his eyes narrowing. Buffy couldn’t work out why he’d not thought about this while he he'd been having Daniel come to dinner in his apartment. There had to have been something else going on there; identification, maybe? Whatever it was, it seemed like he regretted it now. Clearly he didn’t have a good system in place either. “Was she hurt?”

Really, whatever happened to easy, generalist approaches to harbouring criminals? Buffy wasn’t sure what she was going to do if Wes got on board the killing train with Angel. She couldn’t protect Spike, by proxy of Daniel, from both of them at once.

“Wes…” Cordelia, at least, seemed to be on the side of life; they shared a look of understanding. “Don’t,” she appealed to one twitchy-looking Watcher-guy.

“I was lied to by a demon, Wesley,” Daniel claimed more strongly, bitterness in his voice and the gestures of his left hand. “by Sahjhan. I see now…”

“Oh, please,” Angel interrupted, scoffing at him. “Don’t tell me you’re feeling _guilty_.” The words were like acid, like very little Buffy had heard from Angel before. She wasn’t sure what to think as she listened to him speak. Everyone… Why was everyone so messed up? “You committed two hundred years to this revenge; you’ll not convince anyone you’re giving it up now.”

There was no way she could look at him. Looking at Spike still hurt, so her gaze drifted to the others standing at the mouth of the alleyway: Wesley’s anguish, Cordy’s worry and Kate, who looked completely unsurprised by Angel’s anger, by his rage. Set against the backdrop of the night and the lights from the traffic jam, she looked serene, empty. Moved on from all of this, uncaring. Like she found it too familiar to let it get it to her. Like this, being detached, this was how she needed to be.

How had that happened? Buffy wanted to know. When had it all changed? Kate had reminded her of two years ago, when she’d been here after Faith and her own revenge – but then Angel had kept Faith safe, stopped Buffy, reached out when everybody else had given up. It had been hard at the time, and was even harder now with current evidence, to believe that Angel’s motives had been pure of anything but moral righteousness. (Rectitude? That word that sounded like a ruler…)

But she did believe it. When she was being fair on Faith – and sometimes, in hindsight, she was – Buffy believed in everything Angel had yelled at her way back when.

_You have no idea what it’s like on the other side!_

And she could still remember Faith yelling that at her, word for word. She didn’t know how true it was these days, but Angel had always known it, Buffy knew that. Right now he was practically standing there, the shadows on his face and damp brickwork behind his back.

Was it going to be down to her? Buffy really hoped it wasn’t. She didn’t know if she had the strength for this. “Is that it, then, Angel?” she asked, letting some of her fear leak into anger, balling her fists against the cold and in preparation. “You gonna throw him to the wolves, turn yourself into one? Don’t you save souls anymore?”

Clearly she didn’t have the strength, because what she said seemed to have no effect. “No,” Angel replied almost immediately, not removing his steely gaze from Holtz’s back. “Not his. Not now.”

Like at the end too many conversations she had with Angel, Buffy could feel the upset and disappointment filling her gut, dragging her down. When had this all turned around? She wasn’t supposed to have to stand for this stuff on her own. “Angel…” she begged, shaking her head, all too aware that it wouldn’t change his mind.

“You’re wasting your time, Miss Summers,” Daniel told her then, loudly enough to make sure his voice carried. “The monster inside will never be content until vengeance is done.”

“And you’d know all about that, wouldn’t you?” she shouted back, flinching as she saw Spike flinch. But of course Daniel was entirely unmoved. “You and your revenge.” Honestly, she was just afraid now, panicking beyond reason about how all this was going to end. This was always what love did to her. “What did you think was gonna happen when you started on this, huh?” she accused, fighting through her panic, the tarmac hard beneath the thin soles of her shoes. She should never have worn heels, no matter how happy she was to be free of the Doublemeat collection of ugly flats. “OK, so Angelus killed your whoever, but now you’re trying to kill his son! You’re coming out of the haze, starting to feel guilty, fine. Good. You do that. Angel’s gonna feel just the same way when he gets over this, so right now you could try _not_ making him want to kill you!”

“My wife and children,” Daniel replied dully, his voice resounding in the night-time. Buffy watched him for any sign of movement, but there was none. “My Caroline, my Daniel Henry, my Sarah. That was my ‘whoever’. They may be two hundred years dust, but it has been less than half a year of my experience since I held them in my arms. And now you tell me…” For a moment he paused and Buffy allowed herself to breathe, still watching him. The straight back of his dad-coat was still straight, his hair even stiff in the breeze. “You believe Angelus is able to love his son, with the same faith and duty as I loved mine?”

Cordelia was first off the mark with a response to that. “Yes!” she insisted, as panicked as the rest of them, thankfully holding it in enough that Spike had a chance to survive. “For god’s sake, yes.”

Her response, however, seemed to have no effect on Holtz. “Miss Summers,” he asked, demanding a response specifically from her. “Even you, with your training, your experience?”

“Yes,” she answered, because, really, it wasn’t a question. She looked at Angel, all his hate, all the fear that was causing it, and she knew there wasn’t any other answer. “Angel loves his son every day, every second. As for _Angelus_ …” For a moment, she paused, not certain what she wanted to commit to. But there still was little doubt in her mind, not least with Spike standing there, meeting her eyes as she looked at him again, needing to know he was still all right. It had to be possible, didn’t it? She’d gone too far not to accept that it was possible. “If Angel lost his soul,” she stated, directing her words plainly and cleanly at Holtz’s back and the crossbow still in his hand, “I think he’d still love Connor.” She could imagine it, imagine the twisted, contorted expressions of emotion; she had a terrible feeling Angelus had still loved _her_. “I think it would tear him up inside,” she continued, keeping her voice steady, “and I think the best thing anyone could ever do for that boy right then would be to take him far, far away… But, yes, he’d still love him.” Angel would always be standing here, doing this – even when he no longer had principles to break. “He still would want revenge.”

Angel harrumphed at that moment and Buffy spared him a glance, trying to work out if he agreed with what she was saying. It didn’t really matter, because Holtz wasn’t going to believe him whatever he said, but she wanted to at least try and be _right_.

As their eyes met, Buffy felt certain that she knew. “The problem wouldn’t be that he wouldn’t love him,” she explained, seeing in this rage the same guy who'd cooed over a crib. “The problem would be that it would still leave him evil.” She shook her head, looking back to Holtz, over his shoulder to Spike, wondering if this would finally make him understand. “That’s the thing about Angel, with me as well, what makes us alike.” They’d never be able to rely on love to make them do good. “Love doesn’t make us different; it doesn’t change who we are.”

On that comment, Spike’s eyes widened, though he still looked too nervous to say anything. She wanted nothing more than to force him out of Daniel’s grip and tell him again, get them alone and make him understand – because it finally made sense to her. His love made him notice stuff, work things out. Hers… It wasn’t nearly so helpful. That was the reason why he didn’t trust that she loved him, it had to be, but it was just because they were different; it didn’t mean she was wrong.

“I suppose you claim to love this vampire, then,” Holtz remarked, apparently quite able to assess situations even when his life was falling apart and he was at risk of having his throat torn out by an angry master vampire. He emphasised his point with a jab of the crossbow into Spike’s chest, making him gasp, and her in turn. “And think your integrity remains intact.”

“Yes,” she said, feeling quite snippy about having to let everyone know about it, under this sort of duress. She could feel their eyes on her. “Even.”

Saying it felt awkward, off-message and off-mission – but it got Spike looking at her. That made it worth it: at least if this all really did go wrong he might go out believing her.

And he seemed to – that was the thing she loved best. She wasn’t expecting it, but a long, warm flush of feeling spread through her chest as her eyes met his. There was acceptance on his face, relief when he realised he could trust her to get him out of this. It felt like nothing else.

Because she could, couldn’t she? If he trusted her, then she could. All she needed was a distraction to knock Daniel out, not risk him firing that crossbow in Spike’s heart…

“Now?” Spike asked – and he was playing it breathless, like a man asking the woman he loved if she really did love him back. It was – well, it was pretty realistic.

It gave them the chance to communicate. “Do you trust me?” she asked, like a woman who hadn’t just watched him work it out. What she really meant, and she knew he knew it, was, _Are you ready?_

With a look that was deadly serious, not gushing anymore but absolutely perfect, he nodded. “Yes.”

She nodded back – then moved.

* * *

It was another one of those moments. Yet again, Spike found himself living some sort of bullet-time daydream, only this time it was his own life at stake.

It was also different this time because Buffy loved him. She’d said it in front of people, in front of _Angel_ , and, unlike before when he’d found himself mostly confused by the words, this time it actually felt like he’d stepped into a parallel universe, right where they made sense. This had to be some sort of perfect world, he was certain of it, even if he was being threatened with death. Everything was coming together.

He knew what was coming when Buffy nodded, just as he knew this was the best chance of getting out of this mess, even if he didn’t overly fancy the hurt about to come his way. Thankfully he understood pain, had felt more than enough of it before – had felt a hellgod rummage through his insides with her fingers not so long ago. If he survived, then he’d get over it.

Shutting his eyes, so he wouldn’t have to see, Spike put his unlife on the line. He listened to Daniel’s steady heartbeat in a black, blank world, set against the sound of the traffic. In one single, unpredictable movement, he clapped his hands up to Holtz’s wrist, squeezing as he pushed the man’s arm upwards and ducked his own body down onto its knees.

Immediately pain flared in his head, a loud hot-cold burn, forcing his eyes even more shut than they already were. The bolt carved into him as he forced it up his chest, fired into his shoulder so the pressure threw him back against the wall. More pain seared into the muscle there, across his shoulder blades which had already felt too many bricks for one evening.

He panted, trying to breathe through it, opened his eyes to slits just in time to see Buffy’s fist smash a perfectly-timed knock-out blow into the side of Holtz’s head, not quite hard enough to kill him. As the man fell, his arm wrenched from Spike’s hands, giving him one final jolt of damning pain.

But then it was over, the last of it. He knew it, as well as he could hear the others starting to move, as Buffy immediately dropped to his eye level and stroked his face, one warm, small hand against his cheek. She checked that he was conscious, lucid, darting looks between his pupils, before she was turning her head over her shoulder, barking orders about the body lying at her side. “Somebody get him somewhere! – Restrain him! – Angel, you aren’t gonna harm him or so help me I will kill you myself! – Call… Call Riley and his supernatural jail squad! – Do something!”

 _Always a quick thinker; that’s my girl…_ As for himself, Spike thought, letting his head loll back against the wall, unconsciousness was starting to sound like a good idea. It was far less embarrassing than nausea and he had the awful feeling like he needed to be sick. Or die. Death didn’t sound too bad an option.

“Hey, you; wake up!” his harpy of a lover was then suddenly shouting at him, panic in the tingling of her fingers as she tapped the flat of his cheek with her left hand. “This bolt needs to come out,” she explained, feeling up the area with some fingers. It had been a hell of a lot sexier when he’d done it to her wound; maybe that _had_ been the magic after all. “D’you want me to pull or push?”

There was no need for him to look down to know what was going on, or even to open his eyes. He had a shaft of wood sticking out of him, thankfully carved from one long dowel rather than with a metal tip, so it wouldn’t rip him up too much whichever way it went. But there would be suction if it went backwards – and more damage if it went forwards. Which would he prefer? He wasn’t sure whether…

 _Ow, ow –_ “Fucking _bitch!_ ”

His eyes flared open, a fresh rush of adrenaline sending him straight to alert, fangs jerking past his teeth as his face went. Buffy was still there in front of him, but she was holding one bloody crossbow bolt in her fingers, wrenched out without any warning at all. Of course the cow had one perfect little smirk on her perfect little face. He felt like biting it off. “Christ,” he kept on swearing, panting heavily between words. “What the –”

With a quick snap of the wood into two bits of rubbish, however, his darling Buffy was dropping it to the ground and cradling the back of his head in her left hand so she could close in for the sweetest kiss of his unlife. More than happy to change tack, he submitted, relaxing his face and opening his mouth to the slow, silencing caress of her tongue. As she pulled away, his body was far less interested in being sick than curling up into soggy ball of misery, and he was set to throw himself on Buffy’s charity.

Frankly, Spike was embarrassed that he could be so easily bought, but there wasn’t much he could do apart from accept that this was how things were. “Still think you’re a bitch,” he said, if only to assuage his own pride. At her snort of amusement, he immediately contradicted himself – dumped his arms around her and dragged her in closer to where he was slumped against the wall. Then, as her fingers worked through his hair, he couldn’t even keep up a little bit of verbal pretence, telling her, “Love you,” as he lowered his aching head onto her warm shoulder.

“You too,” she murmured, and it was like a big warm feather eiderdown wrapping around him, tickling his fingers and toes.

Against that feeling, blood was seeping onto his shirt and jacket, probably clotting happily on its own, even as it ruined his new gear. It felt unpleasantly cold and sticky. “Bastard ruined my jacket,” he muttered, certain he was starting to feel better now that he was noticing that sort of thing, but definitely not about to move of his own accord. “It was new this morning and now it’s got this whacking great hole in it!” He just knew he was never going to get the blood out. “Don’t know what I was thinking.”

“It’s not _so_ bad,” Buffy replied, nudging him into what was probably a more comfortable position. She cast a glance to the bustling sounds of people around them, but he couldn’t be bothered to look up and see what was going on. Although, from what he _could_ see, Holtz was being dragged off to somewhere not the ground; it was a weirdly comic sight for the end of all this, but he ignored it as Buffy kept on talking with her Buffy voice. “It’s a good colour on you; tones down your hair. And it’s sacrilege, I know, but it actually makes the bleach job look less cheap… Although,” she punctuated her pause with a pleasant scrunch of her fingers in his curls, “getting rid of the Brylcreem helmet does that too.”

“Calling me cheap, are you?” he asked back, amused as he nuzzled into her hand a bit and looked up at her face.

She took the opportunity to meet his lips for another brief kiss. “You’d better be, for my budget,” she told him with an impish little grin. “Can’t afford to wine and dine you like the other women out there.

“Eh,” he dismissed, definitely feeling better now. He could do with a bandage on his chest rather than an open wound, but other parts of him were, oh yeah, raring to go apparently. “I’m sure you’ll make it up to me in other ways.” They were curled up together on the ground, his left arm around her back, her right around his, his thighs getting a nice feel of her shins; he wondered, but doubted, whether she’d be up for a bit of a shadowy touch-up before they got moving again. This was the problem of a short jacket, because he couldn’t let the tail of it swing round and convince her they could be discreet. He had to settle for resting his hand on her thigh and hoping she wouldn’t shove it off.

What she actually did was cover his hand with hers, pull it a touch higher and spread the digits till his thumb was very nearly beyond the bounds of decency, getting lost in the fuzzy creases of her trousers. It was surprising, not to mention quite unfairly arousing for an injured man. “Seriously,” she breathed in his ear, making it a hell of a lot worse. “I have so many plans for when we get home.”

Considering that was about as dirty as Buffy Summers had ever spoken to him when there were other people in earshot, he felt a charge go through him almost as heady as if she’d straddled him then and there. “Love,” he told her, giving himself away by the needy rumble he didn’t know how to get out of his voice. “Keep talking like that and I’m gonna give Angel and his pals something of a show.”

“Well, we wouldn’t want that,” she whispered smuttily back, shifting on her bum so her shins rubbed a bit against his thighs. Her mouth was definitely expecting the kiss he laid on it, lips greedy and full against his, enjoying the attention. Even as it felt like love – even as he let his hand get in a little leg-squeezing – he knew it wasn’t going to last. There were still some more things to do, a mission to complete. Buffy would never forget about that, not for him, not for anyone. No one apart from Dawn, maybe, though they hadn’t needed to test that claim of hers, in the end.

Even if Spike was blocking out everything that was going on around them, far more content to pretend it was just him and Buffy, together on the floor of the crypt, perhaps, after they’d ended up on the wrong side of the room – he knew that she was listening to every voice around her, keeping track of what was going on.

But he could be all right with that, still trust – actually believe that she loved him and would work to keep them going. The strange feeling of happiness in him properly thought that he could, and it wasn’t even that distracted by the pain in his shoulder, which was refusing to numb.

“So,” she asked when they pulled back, popping her lips together presumably to make them look less wet and ravished. She pulled her knees up to her chest as well; it made him bring his hands back to himself, but he had a feeling the action’s main purpose was to conceal various embarrassing reactions she’d had to the kissing. That brought its own fun, just from the way she squirmed when he shot her a wink. “Anyway,” she continued, not sounding all that certain about what she was trying to say. “We’d better…” Her eyes lowered demurely as she paused, frowning. “Why _did_ you save Daniel, actually?” she asked in the end, distracting herself from the mission to look at him again.

Startled, Spike didn’t know what to say. The only question he ever would have expected from her was what she would have asked if he'd failed – and it would have come with a lot more anger and accusation after they were dealing with a dead body, gallons of blood and Angel dancing in the stuff. It would’ve been very much like a party, only Spike wouldn’t have been enjoying himself, the same way he hadn’t been able to fully enjoy the thought of that sort of thing since he’d come over all queer for one squidgy goody-two-shoes Slayer. “It’s what you expected of me, innit?” he asked, momentarily uncertain. “What you wanted me to do?”

Her response was one of those strange half-smiles of hers, accompanied by bright eyes not quite welling up.

_Oh. Right._

“Yeah,” she said warmly, letting her right hand escape her knees to take hold of his left, squeezing his fingers. God, but she could make him feel good. “It’s hard to tell sometimes,” she continued, “when it’s all messed up like this…” It sounded like she’d been thinking about it for a while. “But yeah, definitely.” Nodding her chin so she could stare through her eyelashes, she made sure he was listening as she finished, “Always, actually. Even if it’s me who’s high on the vengeance fumes.”

“Noted,” he agreed, quite happy to keep on living the dream. It wasn’t like it bothered him whether people like Holtz lived or died, so, as far as he was concerned, it sounded just as easy to save them as it was to slaughter a roomful. It was the magic of apathy, that.

Knowing his luck, it was likely to get him into just as many interesting life-or-death situations. Having Buffy in his life mostly made up for the other bits of excitement he’d miss out on. She didn’t seem to care too much about the gambling and the smoking and the stealing, which he was going to cut down on anyway, the moment he got himself some cash again. It wasn’t a sustainable habit, really.

 _Bloody hell._ “You’ve turned me into a right old Mr. Clean, haven’t you?” he accused her the moment he realised just how far his thoughts had gone, looking down at their clasped hands and wondering why he wasn’t putting up more of a fight.

The answer was pretty obvious, in the way she squeezed his fingers. Even as she scoffed with mock-outrage, “Don’t you go blaming me! All I wanted from you was a way to self-destruct.” He looked up to see her trying not to smile, could feel the matching grin spread across his own lips. “I take no responsibility for you at all.”

“Is that right?” It was ever so possible that in his new, mission-conscious state, Spike was becoming a little more aware of his surroundings. For example, he knew that Wesley, Kate and Cordelia were having a conversation, and he knew that Angel was listening in. “The self-destruction’s fucking hot, though, innit?” he couldn’t not ask when he had Buffy on the ropes, with her laughing eyes and her claims she hadn’t made him good.

“Hoo, yeah,” she replied, giggling.

He really did have to keep himself from crowing to everyone in a five-mile radius how happy she looked. Not least as Angel billowed his billowy coat with a turn to leave the alleyway. Yeah, he still had it. _Take that, evil of the world._

When his eyes slipped back to Buffy’s, she winked at him, proving once and for all that she would always be one step ahead. And certainly not above little bits of petty revenge against people who had had him nearly killed. Maybe this was why he wasn’t meant to rely on her for moral guidance…

“All right,” Spike asked finally, putting a hand against his wound to assess the damage and deciding he would indeed survive. “What’s it we’re doing now?”

Buffy threw up a hand, halfway to a shrug. “We are…” She looked behind her, at his motorbike, the cluster of people and a still unconscious Holtz who had his hands secured behind his back with something or other. Just beyond, the traffic jam looked like it was finally clearing up for the night. “We’re giving Holtz to Riley for a jail term or a restraining order or new life in Santa Fe or whatever, because apparently I outsource all responses to all human threats now, and then…” Frowning, she paused – before she reached into her jacket pocket. Out came what looked like a business card, brandished with an aura of ‘aha’. “We call Brian and see if he can hook us up whatever this urn thing is we need trap the evil demon genie guy.”

Groaning, Spike wondered if he would be able to plead chest wound and sleep it all out in the car. The last thing he needed tonight was a chat with Riley Finn. As for this Brian bloke, all bets were on for him to be a boring wanker too. Still, it had to be done didn’t it? Best get on with it, he thought.

But then – “Don’t worry, though,” Buffy told him as they struggled him to standing. It suddenly seemed like an awfully long way down to his feet – and his shoulder, well, apparently it didn’t enjoy supporting the whole weight of his arm. _Ow._ “I’m pretty sure we personally only have a date with Mecurochrome and Tylenol.”

Now, if that wasn’t love, he didn’t know what was. “Errrgh,” Spike thanked her, trying to make sure he didn’t show his own feelings by vomiting all over her hair.


	15. Epilogue.

The happy bubble Buffy found herself in took about a week to burst. As was the way with bubbles, she didn't realise it was there until it was gone, but it was pretty blissful along the way. She and Spike had returned to Sunnydale on Tuesday evening, leaving Cordelia in charge of Angel’s mood swings, since it seemed like that was her full-time job anyway, and the days afterwards gradually unfolded into something resembling normality.

Soon enough, it was the day of Xander and Anya’s wedding and, for the most part of the day, Buffy bubbled along quite nicely. She greeted all the guests as they came in and avoided Xander’s Uncle Rory; humoured Halfrek and D’Hoffryn; had a sneaky, I’m-twenty-one-and-legal drink from the bar and found herself positively whisked into a sneaky corridor behind the function room, where her live-in vampire lover didn't even try and smudge her lipstick.

He was nuzzling her neck instead, hands smoothing satin around her waist and lower back. “Do you have any idea how beautiful you look today?” he was telling her. “The glow on you, could burn a man alive...”

It was hard not to give in to compliments like this, so she didn’t try, let her hands wander across his waist and down into his belt region. Sure, she was dressed in radioactive green, so the glow was probably artificial, but she wasn’t about to protest at the response. “It’s a happy day,” she said, breathing in all the Spike-smell she could as she closed her eyes, cigarette smoke and everything. “I’m in a good place; my friends are getting married; you’re looking totally hot…”

And he was, even. As he pulled back to smirk at her, Buffy was able to take it all in again. There was no kind of persuasion on earth that would have got him in a suit for Xander’s wedding, but she was pretty happy with how he’d scrubbed up. She’d given him a fifty-dollar loan out of her first policing paycheque and he’d given it back in double a few days later, promising her that he was only multiplying funds out of ‘legal, safe and boring’ gambling – and after that he seemed to find enough to get by.

OK, so she wasn’t entirely sure he wasn’t up to anything dicey, but she was happy enough to hope whatever scams he was running weren’t about to blow up in their faces – nor anybody else’s. Maybe that meant she was turning into one of those naïve and nagging girlfriends from the TV, who didn’t like living with a cat burglar but never left them anyway, but… Well, she had a feeling that anyone Spike was taking money from felt like they wanted to give it to him, at least by the time the transaction took place. So – maybe that wasn’t so bad?

Whatever the implications, which she was trusting weren't too terrible, he was getting into a semi-comfortable place with money again, and that meant she’d been able to take him shopping. Not only that, but she’d been able to convince him it was perfectly normal to have more than one jacket in a wardrobe, so he could own _both_ a new khaki jacket _and_ the woolsy-tweed thing he’d had his eye on the last time. Not every item of clothing had to be loved and treasured to the exclusion of all others, so Buffy had tried to impart. Slightly stunned by this revelation, Spike had nonetheless followed her advice, and was currently teaming his jeans and boots with a silky black shirt and the blazer.

It hadn’t really looked that good in the mall – she’d mostly encouraged him to buy it as a point of principle – but now, after they’d already fooled around a little bit back at home and she’d messed up his hair, she couldn’t stop running her hands over this jacket, with its seams and its darts and its lapels. Her Spike was all lines and angles and – hands, running shivers up her arms to her brace-free, cap-sleeved shoulders. OK, those were better than jacket. “I can’t ruin my make-up,” she informed him in a very important non-sequitur. He smirked at her, eyes dancing like she was wicked and he loved it. “I have to look picture-perfect.” Really, she was mostly trying to convince herself. “For the _pictures_.”

“Fine,” he replied, even as he stepped around her shoes and crowded her back against the wall. “But I think we can both accept you’re looking far, far too comfortable.” Hands that had been on her shoulders were trailing down her collarbones now, his right hand only pausing slightly at the puckered scar she was likely never to lose. Inches remained between their faces, enough for a long, intense stare as her breathing started picking up, as he leaned a forearm by her head to shield the view of any intruders.

She enjoyed her private stare, not least as his hand moved a little further down.

But then, “I should move out, you know,” he mumbled, like he’d been working himself up to saying it. “Find my own place again.”

“Why?” she asked, not worried yet as she rested her arms around his shoulders. It wasn’t like he’d ever moved in officially – and it _was_ supposed to have been temporary. “I know we said a few days, but, really, you don’t need to rush.” It had been nice having him in the house – and not much had changed. She still spent the day working on her own and they still patrolled together. So, now their sleeping together included a lot more actual sleeping and he was there for practically every mealtime, but she liked that. “I mean,” she conceded, accepting the bizarre possibility, “unless you want to…”

He sighed, seizing her around the waist and knocking their noses together three times – gently enough, Buffy hoped, that she wouldn’t have to powder. “If I had my way neither of us would go anywhere,” he began. From the serious expression of his eyes, however, she knew there was a ‘but’ and, sure enough, it came. “But it’s your house, your house, and I don’t think Willow…”

All right, she could accept that. Willow spent a certain amount of time harrumphing. But – “Willow knows the rules,” Buffy was adamant all the same. “If she’s unhappy about something with the house, she has to say it out loud so we can discuss it. Like when we changed the wheaties.” That had been a tenet of the Buffy-Willow cohabitation agreement since college and there had been no revision of the contract. Unlike her one with Brian, which he said was in the mail. “When I ask she says it’s fine,” she told Spike, eyeing his eyes with hers and feeling sexy enough to find the blue erotic. “So it’s fine.”

“Fair enough,” he replied, glancing away but holding her closer while he did it. “All the same, I…” He hesitated, looking uncertain about whether she was going to be understanding about what he said next. Of course he went for it anyway. “I wouldn’t mind getting in some _stuff_ , you know: books, music, maybe a bit of furniture. Your whole life’s in that room,” he added, and not for the first time she felt bad about making him seduce her while surrounded by old Dorothy Hamill memorabilia. “Wouldn’t mind somewhere where I feel like things belong to me.” And then he was nuzzling her neck again, because apparently both of them knew how easy she was. “Somewhere I can lure you proper into bed,” he described, so she was suddenly imagining dark sheets and throws, gothic candlesticks she’d never thought she’d miss, all her comfy cotton work clothes teased into a heap and replaced by a black silk nightie – no, midnight blue or green – bought especially for these long nights in. “The charm’s wearing off feeling like your soccer dad househusband.”

She knew what he meant. Even if he saved lives now, he was never going to be comfortable in a world of flowery wallpaper.

Still, it didn’t mean she couldn’t miss him when he was gone. “But…” It was all Dawn’s fault, Buffy decided. If she hadn’t made it so clear that she knew what had been going on in Buffy’s room, then they wouldn’t have felt the need to get all sensible and quiet and functional about things. “You’ll come back sometimes, right?” she asked, not caring if she sounded a little desperate. Sometimes Dawn stayed at Janice’s, and if Willow and Tara kept making eyes at each other the way they were, houses were going to be free all over the place. “I’ll miss having you around…”

Unashamedly smelling her hair like a weirdo, he snorted. “You’re not getting rid of me _that_ easily,” he scoffed, like she’d got the wrong impression entirely. “Told you once before, I’m rather fond of having you around to warm up my bed.” And she remembered, suppressing the urge to tell him he made a nice mattress ornament. (He did, though: he balanced out her sense of empty space and was nice to look at when she came back from the shower.) “It’s a bit like your two jackets business, innit?” he suggested, which did make her laugh, or giggle, which was embarrassingly more accurate. “It’d give us a choice about how we want to play things. And give me some space to put all my gear.”

“I did try to find you some room in my drawers,” she defended, pulling back to check he wasn’t upset about that. It wasn’t her fault it had been a losing battle against all the sale items she’d bought over the last couple of years; she couldn’t quite give up on them yet. “You’re the one who said piles would be easier.”

He was smiling. It was definitely a good look; she was going for it too. “It is easier,” he told her. “Last thing I want is to be smelling of those lavender coat hangers your mum insisted on filling the house with.” She swatted him for that, mostly because it was fun to find excuses to swat him, especially when it made him jump. “Doesn’t mean a man of my – sartorial elegance,” he continued, laying it on thick, “should be expected to live like that forever.”

Finally, she managed to translate the Spike-speak into English, and worked out that he was actually suggesting little-to-no reduction in the amount of time they spent together, only for her to come back to his ‘place’ sometimes, wherever that would be, so they didn’t always end patrol by having to decide whether they needed to get any shouty sex out of their system before they found somewhere comfy to roll around. Also, he wanted somewhere to accrue nicknacks and plan his not-so-nefarious schemes with a glass of bourbon, listen to his ugly music and read his smelly books. “OK,” she said at last, happy to see the crinkles in the corners of his eyes as she made him happy too. “That’s all fine with me.” It sounded like the only thing she needed was a nightie, and she could manage that.

Neither of them could quite resist sealing their newly defined chapter of domestic happiness with a kiss, but that was the curse of bubbling. By the time Buffy realised she was going to need to reapply at least some lip gloss there wasn’t any point in not letting it continue, so she made the moment worth it, trying to show her appreciation for the househusbanding with her lips and tongue alone. Spike, apparently, just wanted her too distracted to bridesmaid properly – and it was working. Even as the distraction contrarily reminded her that she was meant to be entertaining, it didn’t seem all that important.

At least, that was, until, yep, the bubble burst. “Buffy!” someone said, accompanied by the sound of a doorway bursting open. “Oh – you’re here.”

It was Kate. She was wearing dress pants and a fancy shirt, but it was definitely still her. As Buffy pulled back and Spike pulled out of her space, she could see that the other woman did not look like everything was going OK back inside. Even if they had different styles, they were getting a good colleague-type relationship going, so she could read that. “What is it?” Buffy asked.

“Willow’s looking for you,” Kate informed her, and Spike as well as she glanced his way. He was wiping lip gloss off his face, but even so Kate’s expression remained deadly serious. “Xander’s missing.”

She looked at Spike. He looked at her. The world came rushing in like a flood.

* * *

In one of those really annoying coincidences, it was raining when Buffy bustled outside in her dress, completely not sure where Xander would have gone. He had a tendency to deal with his problems the way the movies had taught him, so she was hoping that a walk in the rain had seemed the like the perfect answer to any crisis he was having – and that it _was_ a blippy crisis they could deal with, rather than some sort of demon kidnapping where they’d lose the reservation and she would have to fight in the awful mermaid skirt she was wearing. Possibly wear it again.

Although, if it was a crisis, she didn’t know where it had come from. She remembered Anya’s crying jag in the Magic Box on her last day at the DMP, but that had only been stress, Buffy was certain. And she was sure both Anya and Xander had bonded with the Finns over their various marriage worries. They were solid. They had to be solid. They’d always been more solid than her.

Around the corner of the Bison Lodge’s main building, Buffy found a man in a tux leaning against the wall with one hand. He looked slightly overweight, had chubby cheeks, and he was vomiting into the water that was starting to run through the dirt and rubbish on the ground. He didn’t look anything like the Xander Buffy knew at all, but when he raised his head, which was pale and waxy, full of fear, she recognised that it wasn’t anybody else. Any last remnants of her bubble were shot all to hell. “Xan?” she asked, shivering as she felt the water falling on her. “What’s going on? Are you OK?”

“I can’t do it,” he told her, trembling. His stare was fixed on a point somewhere over Buffy’s shoulder and his words were barely coherent. “I can’t do that to her; I can’t do it.”

At least it sounded like the ‘it’ was something other than ‘not going through with the wedding’, Buffy thought. “Do what?” she tried to get him to explain a little more, asking gently. “What’s wrong?”

As if he’d only now realised she was there, Xander’s eyes slipped to hers and Buffy’s heart broke to see all the swirling uncertainty that was filling them. She knew she must have looked the same at some point in the last year, if not in the last few weeks or days, if not for days at a time, but she never expected to see the look on somebody else, let alone her best friend. “I’m gonna hurt her,” he said, hopeless. “I’m not ready for this.”

Then he was crumbling, so she trailed the train of her dress through the mud to catch him, taking his weight easily as he collapsed around her shoulders and sobbed into the rain. “What’s happened?” she asked again, still not able to work out how it had all gone wrong. He and Anya had made it all the way here from _prom_ ; that was so huge. Riley had come and gone, Tara had appeared, moved in and moved out. Spike had… He’d been after the Gem of Amarra when Xander and Anya had started going steady. That was like a lifetime ago, a literal lifetime and some years. “You and Anya are so great.” They had a beautiful love, didn’t they? She remembered thinking that once.

“I’m not worth it,” Xander dismissed, shaking her head against her shoulder like he was trying to block out the world. She was getting really, really damp now. So much for her attempts to look perfect today, even in the dress of doom. “I don’t know how to be with someone like her. I can’t do it.”

“Sure you can,” Buffy insisted, patting his back as the first twinge of worry came in through the surprise and confusion. It sounded like Xander really was thinking about not going through with the wedding and that, that wasn’t allowed to happen. She couldn’t force him, obviously, but her heart was already breaking for how Anya would feel if he didn’t come back. How he would feel in a few days’ time. Hell, how he was feeling _now_. “Just turn around and walk back inside, one step at a time; keep things short and tell her ‘I do’.” There was still time, wasn’t there? Buffy had no idea how long they had. “It’s easy,” she promised, even though she knew it was probably a lie. She could still remember how hard love could be. If dimly.

“I don’t know how…” Pulling back, Xander looked like he wanted to throw up again, as pale as any vampire she came across, distinctly yellowish against the white of his shirt collar. “I saw the future,” he explained at last, as if that was an explanation. “Future Me came back and showed me what I do, what I become.” He squeezed his eyes shut, swallowing down whatever wanted out of him before he spoke again. “And I’m him, I’m my dad. I want Anya to be my mom, meek and… But she won’t, because she’s Anya, and she’s perfect, won’t put up with me – and I hate her,” he confessed, looking at Buffy like he wanted her to hate him too. “I hate her so much for it.”

This was the moment, Buffy decided – the moment more than any other moment when she hoped her SAT scores hadn’t been telling a complete lie, because she really needed to figure out a way not to screw this up. “OK,” she said, breaking it down. “First of all, Future You is not you.” And who the hell was this Future Xander? That wasn’t a question for now, but she was filing it away for later. This was Sunnydale; she would ignore it. “I don’t care what he said –” _Or who the hell he is?_ “– but it sounds like he’s some twisted guy who’s ruined everything good about his life, and that’s not you.”

Xander looked her, completely not convinced. Looking at him, looking at the dingy surroundings and the raincloud, the sick on the ground, she wasn’t sure she was convincing herself.

Hoping she would end up somewhere sensible, Buffy rambled on. “What is the future anyway? I mean, when was the last time you read a prophecy that it wasn’t possible to completely subvert or whatever…?” No, that wasn’t getting anywhere either. Another tack: “I could go back in time and tell Past Me hipster jeans come into fashion and all the money she spends on leather pants is gonna be wasted when she only wears them a couple times – and that she should have saved for, you know, _food_. But – but that doesn’t change anything. That doesn’t mean she shouldn’t buy high-waist leather pants. You know what I mean?” That was a point, wasn’t it? “She loves those pants when she sees them twenty percent off.” Waving a hand through the rain, she tried to draw her really tenuous analogy to some sort of conclusion. “It just means maybe she should treat them better, wear them more before their time is up. Not waste other money on other stuff… Right?”

Xander wasn’t following her. Even though the parallels were pretty clear as far as Buffy was concerned, she could tell he was lost from the blankness of his face. At least he’d moved on from all-encompassing despair, but the confusion wasn’t a good look for him either.

“What I’m saying is…” She tried again, rubbing water droplets into her arms as her hair plastered to her head. “Sure. Maybe you’ll screw up. But you can screw up in so many ways that there’s no reason to think about some specific one, especially if you know what it is and can try not to do it.” _If you don’t wanna be your father, then don’t be him._ Could she say that? She wasn’t sure if that was just too obvious to be helpful. “What if this is you messing up right now?”

Suddenly and a little wildly, Xander laughed. “Oh, don’t worry,” he said. “I figured that part out already.” He sounded more like himself again, which Buffy was grateful for. She just couldn’t be sure what sort of decision actually-himself-Xander was going to make, nor how she was supposed to know what the right one was. She didn’t know about relationships; she and Spike had pretty much been a total fluke, as far as she could tell – hadn’t they? “I just…” Xander kept on going, distracting her back to the situation at hand. “How can I get married now? I’m not ready. I really know I’m not. Look at me.” He held out his hands, showed off one ruined tuxedo jacket. “What kind of loser acts like this on his wedding day?” He shook his head, bitterly. “I’ve already failed.”

“No you haven’t,” Buffy told him quickly, insistent as he looked down. “You really haven’t.” This much she knew, even if the rest of her advice was crap and mostly amounted to stupid thoughts she had in the shower about the money she’d wasted over the years. “You don’t fail till you give up and go home…” Seriously, she knew this. “For god’s sake, Xan,” she added, trying to shout him out of his torpor. “Anya loves you!” He was forgetting that part, she could tell. When she said it he looked up. “All you need to do to make her happy is be with her. Everything else is a bonus. It sucks a little bit, because it isn’t fair at all, but the worst thing you could do to her is _leave_.” Really, that was what he had to understand. “She’s not gonna care if you come back now, all soggy Xander – if you don’t have any vows to say, if you’re afraid. She just won’t. She’ll marry you all the same.”

As Xander stared back at her, Buffy realised that, out of all of them, he was the one who’d never had somebody walk out on him. Cordelia had dumped him, but he’d been cheating on her with Willow, so that was predictable. He didn’t know what it was like to try, try really hard, and still have the person he loved decide that he wasn’t enough on his own. Buffy hoped she could make him understand, if only what a gift it was that Anya clearly believed in him.

“I can’t,” Xander began, before swallowing again, hair all matted across his forehead. “I can’t go back there and pretend I’m ready. I can’t – go back to my family and pretend that everything’s fine.”

“You don’t have to be ready,” Buffy told him, shaking her own head, her rain-ruined hair starting to fall out of its pins and tendril down her neck. “You don’t have to be fine and you don’t have to be… You don’t have to be perfect to be happy.” She knew that, didn’t she? She’d worked it out?

It was possible she’d managed to convince him. He slumped, almost like demons did when she’d stabbed them in the stomach with a sword. “I don’t ever wanna hate her, Buffy,” he confessed in one last expression of hopelessness, rubbing his eyes like she hadn’t already seen him cry.

Now she finally understood. “Well, you aren’t ever gonna know that,” she said, straight out. “Not with anyone. What you’ve gotta decide…” Oh, no, she realised as the thought crossed her mind of what she planned to say – this was going to sound hokey. She had to say it anyway, but hopefully Xander wouldn’t realise she was doing some sort of _Lifetime_ thing where she shared the lessons she’d learned with the world before she went off to raise orphans somewhere dusty. “You’ve gotta decide whether or not you trust her not to make it hurt. You know, the love.” There, she said it. Could they please get on with this wedding now? She was getting really cold out here.

“That’s your advice?” Xander asked her, starting to look not only like Xander but a little more like he was alive, which was nice to see. It was possible he’d seen through her cunning façade. “Please don’t tell me you worked that out with the Evil Dead – else I think I’m gonna puke. Again.”

Buffy was giving him a pass on that comment, just because they were in exceptional circumstances. Though, really, she shouldn’t let him get away with it. “You puke all you want,” she patronised, eyeing him to make sure he could take it. “It’s only Anya who’s gonna smell ya.” And, yeah, that was a bad comeback. She should have quit while she was ahead.

But then she was anti-quitting today, wasn’t she? Right, she was perfectly on-message, sticking to her guns. _So there._

* * *

The wedding was not, by any stretch of the imagination, perfect. Under the circumstances, however, Buffy didn’t think it went too badly.

When she and Xander walked back in through the main entrance of the lodge, they found something quite a lot like a massacre, with Spike in his element where he stood over one dead, robe-wearing demon. A wide circle had formed around him, but he was oblivious, licking yellow blood off his fingers and tilting his head to one side as if to say ‘not bad’. Not for the first time, Buffy realised she couldn’t take him anywhere.

Anya was standing to the side, looking dishevelled and teary, but not nearly so dishevelled as Xander, who immediately rushed to within three feet of her – before remembering, apparently, that he’d been about to leave her at the altar and should probably be acting a little more conflicted than devoted. After a couple of seconds, he seemed to decide he didn’t care and pulled Anya into what was likely a very damp hug. Her dress took the hit.

Swishing a slow, dishcloth-style path in her squelching dress shoes, Buffy moved further into the room to take a look around. There was some sort of argument going on, possibly a brawl, all noisy and disordered. Harrises and demons were facing off in the aisle, even though Kate seemed to be giving Uncle Rory a talking to like he’d never had before. Tara was standing on the dais at the front of the room, looking nervous and awkward with Willow by her side. It mostly looked under control?

“Hello love,” Spike said then as he caught sight of her, stepping over the demon to greet her by a large display stand of flowers. “You’ve missed the best bit of the party.”

Snorting, Buffy decided she could leave the fighting for the others. At least for right now. “And I thought Xander was the only mess here…” But he did look kind of dashing, didn’t he, with that post-fight grin on his face? “What happened?”

“Some old curse-ee of Anya’s showed up,” the vampire she loved explained with a shrug, taking in her damp appearance. “Pretended to be some old man to try and ruin her big day – and you look bloody freezing,” he interrupted himself. “Here,” he added, peeling off his jacket and throwing its warm tweediness around her shoulders.

She pulled it around her, tucking her arms into the sleeves. The lining made her shiver, but that was only because it was good lining. And a good jacket. It already smelled like smoke. “Oh, right,” she realised a moment later, just as she was smiling at Spike’s frown to thank him. “That’s what that was. Future Xander.”

“Eh?” Spike asked, but he didn’t push it when she shook her head. Nodding over to where Present Xander and Anya were talking intensely, enough that more tears were smudging around Anya’s eyes, he changed the subject. “Was he trying to do a runner, then?”

“Kinda,” Buffy confirmed, sadly. “But I think I may actually have talked him out of it.” And, honestly, no one could be more surprised about that than her, after the event. “With talking and everything.”

With one bark of laughter, but very wisely making no further comment, Spike took one more look at her shivering body before he put an arm around her shoulders and scooped her sideways into his embrace. All of their arms ended up crossed over her front, her back pressed up against his chest; it was surprisingly warm. More than that, let let them both keep an eye on Xander and his gesturing.

“I used to think they had it all worked out,” she commented as they watched, still not sure she could believe it wasn’t true. “Every time I fell apart, they’d still be going strong. Solid.” Spike mmmed his agreement, rubbing the chill out of her arms. He was keeping watch over her friends, but it was hard to tell whether he actually cared, or if he only cared about her. In the end, Buffy wasn’t sure it made a difference. “I figured they were the light at the end of the tunnel or something, you know?” she continued, leaning back a little more, content. “Only now we’re here, and they’re as close to the edge as I’ve ever been.”

“Yeah, well,” Spike murmured, sounding like he was distracted by another flare up of the brawl in the congregation. “Things change, don’t they?”

“I guess so,” she replied, accepting. Because that was pretty much the truth of it.


End file.
